UNIVERSITY  o 

CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIE60 


?s 


A    MEMORIAL. 


Br   HIS   FATHER. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

PRINTED   AT   THE  RIVERSIDE   PRESS. 
1*67. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  lu  She  year  18G3, 

BY  C.  THURBER, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York 


RIVERSIDE.  CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUQHTON. 


ZDeOicatcD 

TO 

MRS.   CAROLINE    ESTEY    THURBER, 

THE    MOTHER    OF    "OUR   CHARLIE," 
BY   HER 

AFFECTIONATE    HUSBAND. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  volume  owes  its  origin  to  the  death  of  my 
only  beloved  son  CHARLES  THURBER,  Junior.  He 
died  August  5,  1861,  at  the  age  of  five  years  and 
seven  months.  The  frontispiece  presents  a  faithful 
likeness  of  him. 

He  was  a  boy  of  unusual  promise  and  sweet 
ness  of  disposition.  His  biography  is  very  brief,  and 
I  have  tried  that  what  I  say  of  him  shall  not  be 
mere  panegyric  and  the  creation  of  parental  parti 
ality. 

I  have  given  the  title  of  "  Our  Charlie  "  to  the 
book,  that  it  might  be  a  memorial  of  my  boy,  and 
because  from  him  as  from  the  seed  the  work  ger- 

O 

minated. 

The  death  of  children  seems,  primd  facie,  unnat 
ural.  On  mature  reflection,  it  seems  eminently  natu 
ral.  The  analogy  pervades  all  nature.  In  so  far  as 
the  unnaturalness  of  death  consists  in  taking  the 


vi  PREFA  CE. 

living  away  in  the  progress  of  development  and  use 
fulness,  it  pervades  all  ages. 

We  can  find  reasons  more  or  less  satisfactory  why 
God  should  take  away  the  living,  but  none  that  seem 
to  serve  as  a  law  by  which  He  acts.  His  sovereign 
will  seems  to  be  the  only  law.  This  ought  to  satisfy 
us.  We  may  be  sure  that  it  is  a  perfectly  wise, 

just,  and  benevolent  rule  of  action. 

•  •    '  *   r  , "  •  ; ' 

The  stories  in  the  first  part  of  the  book  are  all 
facts.  Of  most  of  them  I  have  personal  knowledge, 
—  many  of  them  I  have  heard  related  by  parties 
interested;  some  of  them  I  have  read  in  the  papers, 
and  one,  "  The  Artist  and  his  Ideals,"  is  founded  on 
an  old  story.  I 

I  have  taken  no  liberties  with  the  main  facts,  but 
have  dressed  them  up  in  my  own  language  and  sup 
plied  what  seemed  to  be  the  natural  links  in  the 
chain  of  events. 

I  have  gone  to  fact,  rather  than  fiction,  because, 
although  truth  may  be  illustrated  as  well  and  some 
times  better  by  the  latter  than  by  the  former,  I 
think  the  afflicted  find  illustrations  from  the  former 
far  more  impressive  than  from  the  latter. 


PREFA  CE.  vii 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  book  will  be  found  the 
reflections  to  which  the  sad  event  has  directed  my 
mind.  I  think  they  have  been  beneficial  to  me,  and 
that  I  have  found  in  them  many  sources  of  comfort 
and  profit.  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  may  find 
their  own  hearts  in  sympathy  with  them  and  find 
comfort  and  profit  also.  The  speculations,  not  to  call 
them  views,  of  spiritual  things  may  not  commend 
themselves  to  all  my  readers,  but  I  cannot  avoid 
thinking  them  somewhat  natural  and  not  wholly 
erroneous. 

The  anecdotes  and  incidents  of  Charlie  might  have 
been  placed  by  themselves,  but  I  preferred  to  place 
them  in  the  order  in  which  they  suggested  themselves 
to  my  mind. 

The  book  is  not  published.  It  is  printed  for  pri 
vate  distribution.  It  is  not  for  sale.  It  is  not  to 
take  its  place  with  the  literature  of  the  day.  It  is 
a  memorial  of  my  beloved  son.  It  is  to  show  others 
my  sources  of  consolation  in  the  midst  of  affliction. 
It  is  to  be  given  to  relatives  and  friends  and  such 
others  as  I  may  happen  to  know  from  time  to  time 
who  have  passed  through  the  deep  waters  and  may 
be  supposed  to  be  in  sympathy  with  the  subject. 


viii  PREFACE. 

I  should  tremble  to  publish  this  volume.  I  do 
not  tremble  to  put  it  into  the  hands  of  the  afflicted. 
If,  as  an  intellectual  effort,  it  is  rejected,  as  the 
outgush  of  a  wounded  heart,  I  am  sure  it  will  be 

respected. 

CHARLES   THUKBER. 

Brooklyn,  N.  F.,  June,  1863. 


PREFACE   TO   THE   SECOND   EDITION. 


THE  present  edition  of  "  Oar  Charlie  "  is  published 
by  and  for  the  Sabbath  -  school  connected  with  the 
Pierrepont  Street  Baptist  Church  of  Brooklyn,  of  which 
school  my  dear  boy  was  a  member.  Whatever  profits 
may  accrue  from  its  sale  belong  wholly  and  exclusively 
to  the  school. 

It  will  not  be  on  general  sale,  but  may  be  had  on  appli 
cation  to  T.  T.  Sheffield,  Esq.,  of  Brooklyn. 

It  is  not  because  I  think  the  first  edition  a  success  in 
a  literary  point  of  view  that  it  is  succeeded  by  a  second. 
Few  commendations  have  been  bestowed  upon  it  except 
by  the  afflicted,  many  of  whom  have  assured  me  that 
they  have  sympathized  in  its  thoughts  and  have  been 
profited  and  comforted  by  them.  By  far  the  greater 
number  of  those  to  whom  I  have  given  it,  have  never 

t  ~  * 

intimated  that  it  was  acceptable  to  them  even  as  a  gift. 
The  reader  therefore  can  see  that  neither  vanity  nor 
ambition  could  have  prompted  me  to  consent  to  a  second 
edition. 


x          PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION. 

The  warm  and  hearty  thanks  of  the  afflicted  who 
have  read  the  book  and  assured  me  that  it  has  been  a 
source  of  comfort  and  profit  to  them,  and  the  earnestly 
expressed  wish  of  very  many  of  this  class  of  readers 
that  I  would  publish  a  second  edition,  and  a  desire  to 
contribute,  if  I  could,  to  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the 
Sabbath-school,  are  the  sole  reasons  why  I  have  given 
my  assent  to  its  being  published. 

I  think  I  have  found  consolation  in  my  sorrow  in  the 
thought  that  the  blow  was  given  me  by  a  loving  Father. 

Perhaps  the  thoughts  and  suggestions  contained  in 
these  pages  may  aid  the  reader  in  obtaining  like  con 
solation. 

God  help  the  mourner,  and  prevent  His  loving  chas 
tisements  from  being  sent  in  vain. 

C.  T. 

BROOKLYN.  N.  T.,  1867. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  FIRST 


Do  SPIRITS  VISIT  EARTH? 20 

DEATH  SELDOM  COMES  AT  THE  RIGHT  TIME  .        .  .21 
.    *    .        .        .        .        .        . 

THE  YOUNG  STUDENT 22 

THE  STATESM-AN  AND  CHRISTIAN    .        .-'                .  25 

THE  WIDOW'S  SON   -..-..-.        .        .  28 

THE  ONLY  SON.;     -.'-'•  v"  ,—  V:!:':»  '•••••'•  •'•'••'•'•  •     31 

No  STRANGER  THAT  THE  YOUNG  DIE  THAN  THE  OLD  41 

THE  OLD  SAGE       .        .        .        .       :v      /:;:-;- :'f;  *'.:.%      41 

THE  AGED  DIVINE     .'•  •  '<.'•'•"•-'•!'     -.'••  •  •«  •  'i   '     .  .     43 

GALLERY  AT  THE  VATICAN  .        .        .    '.-•.=..     :.  44 

RESCUE  OF  THE  IDIOT  BOY      .         .        .  •     .        .  .46 

THE  MISSIONARY    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  48 

THE  YOUNG  HERALD         .  •     .        .        .        .        .  .53 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY       .        .        .        .  57 

THE  RICH  AND  POOR  BOY        .        .  .61 

THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  IDEAL         .        .  67 

DEATH  SELDOM  COMES  AT  THE  RIGHT  TIME      :--j'. :  .     75 

THE  SAILOR    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  76 

THE  INVENTOK    .        .  .      .         .        '.:•'."     v  ''-'  .':  .     82 

THE  RIGHT  TIME  TO  DIE      .        :        .        ...  87 

THE  LITTLE  MARTYR        .  .      .  .      .        .      '.. I       i  :  89 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  Two  BROTHERS 95 

THE  LITTLE  GENIUS 101 

THE  ONLY  SON 106 

BENEFIT  OF  AFFLICTIONS 109 

THE  MERCHANT      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .112 

THE  PASTOR 120 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 132 

THE  ENGLISH  FAMILY       ..*....  142 

THE  GENIAL  CHRISTIAN 153 

THE  YOUNG  PATRIOT         .        .        ...        .        .157 

PART    SECOND 165 

WHY  SHOULD  THE  YOUNG  DIE? 166 

THE  NEW  SONG       .        .        . 185 

EACH  NKW-BORN  SPIRIT  APPEARS  AT  THE  RIGHT  TIME  186 
EACH  HAS  HIS  MISSION  EVEN  IN  HEAVEN'     .        .        .188 

HEAVEN'S  REVEALINGS  . 190 

EACH  FINDS  ins  PROPER  PLACE  IN  HEAVEN         .        .192 
Do  THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEPARTED  ONES  VISIT  us  HKRE?  194 

HEAVEN       .        .        . 199 

WHY  WAS  HE  TAKEN  ?   .        . 205 

How  GOD  AFFLICTS  „  . 220 

FAITH       .        .         . 236 

THE  PAST 249 

TKARS      .        .        . 251 

SABBATH-SCHOOL  INCIDENT 254 

INCIDENT          .         .         .         .         ....         .         .       258 

CHARLIE  AT  THE  COMMUNION 260 

CHARLIE  AT  ST.  PETER'S 264 

WHERE  is  HEAVEN?  .  267 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

STUDIES  OF  HEAVEN 272 

Is  IT  A  BLESSING  TO  HAVE  HAD  SUCH  A  BOY  AND  THEN 

LOST  HIM  ? 291 

THE  BLESSING .        .292 

FRUITS  OF  AFFLICTION      . 296 

Do  SPIRITS  VISIT  us  HERE  ? 298 

ALL  MYSTERIES  EXPLAINED  IN  HEAVEN         .        .        .  305 

STAY  IN  LONDON 310 

PARIS 316 

THE  VOYAGE 319 

THE  RETURN 324 

DOUBTS 329 

THE  PRAYER 336 

WHAT  is  A  SPIRIT? 337 

How  DOES  A  SPIRIT  LOOK? 341 

LlFE    NEVER    ENDS 344 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  PATMOS 346 

THE  PUKE  IN  HEART  LIVE  ON  THE  VERY  CONFINES  OF 

HEAVEN 348 

UPON  WHAT  MISSIONS  DO  SPIRITS  VISIT  EARTH?  AND 

HOW  DO  THEY  DISCHARGE  THEM  ?  349 

WORCESTER 354 

DEATH ....  357 

THE  GRANDMOTHERS 363 

OUR  PHYSICIAN 367 

THE  VOLUNTEER  WATCHER 370 

THE  FUNERAL 372 

THE  CONCLUSION  .  .  .  .375 


OUR    CHARLIE. 


PART   FIRST. 


OUR    CHARLIE. 


PART    FIRST. 

TIT  HERE  is  the  home,  where  is  the  sweet  retreat. 
Where  some  fond  bosom  has  not  ceased  to  beat  ? 
Where  their  gay  feasts  are  not  less  rich  and  rare, 

O     «.- 

Because  the  feasters  see  some  vacant  chair  ? 
Where  their  fond  bosoms  do  not  feel  a  smart 
At  the  sad  absence  of  a  loving  heart  ? 
Such  homes  must  be,  if  they  are  ever  seen, 
Like  angels'  visits,  —  few  and  far  between. 

"  All  men  must  die  "  has  never  been  denied 
Since  Adam  lived  and  the  first  martyr  died  ; 
Yet  the  word  "  mystery  "  drops  from  every  tongue, 
Whene'er  our  loved  ones  droop  and  perish  young ; 
And    though    earth's  babes    scarce   entering   on    their 

years 

Fill  more  than  half  of  earth's  funereal  biers, 
When  fond  affection  is  compelled  to  part 
With  some  sweet  nursling  idoled  in  its  heart, 
It  sits  down  sad  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh, 
And  says,  How  strange  our  little  ones  should  die ! 
1 


2  OUR    CHARLIE. 

When  Love  bends  o'er  its  little  cherub  boy, 

All  lit  with  hope  and  brimming  o'er  with  joy, 

And,  breathless,   watches  every  day  and  hour 

Each  ne\v-born  gush  of  loveliness  and  power, 

And  daily  sees,  as  fond  Affection  can, 

The  first  young  kindlings  of  the  coming  man, 

And  deems  these  proofs  as  plain  as    aught  can  give, 

That  the  dear  idol  of  its  heart  will  live ; 

And  as  these  proofs  before  its  fancy  play, 

And  each  grows  stronger  each  succeeding  day, 

Though  thousands  fall  as  young  and  bright  and  fair, 

'  Tis  manhood's  signet  has  its  impress  there. 

But  lo  !  he  droops,  and  Love,  that  could  not  save, 

Bends  o'er  and  wets  the  little  hero's  grave, 

And  shrieks  aloud  with  sorrow's  shrillest  cry,  — 

Strange  that  a  boy  as  sweet  as  ours  should  die. 

Strange  that  a  bud  that  has  the  magic  power, 
While  yet  a  bud,  to  deck  its  native  bower, 
Should,  ere  one  petal  shows  us  half  its  charms, 
Fade  like  a  vision  in  Affection's  arms, 
And  full  of  perfume,  waste  its  rosy  breath 
In  the  damp,  fetid  charnel-house  of  death. 

Strange  that  a  being  of  mysterious  birth, 
Sent  on  its  mission  to  this  checkered  earth, 
Whose  fresh  young  spirit  in  its  earliest  spring 


OUR    CHARLIE. 

Shows  'tis  a  godlike  and  mysterious  thing, 
Before  it  plies  its  wondrous  powers  and  arts, 
Except  in  sporting  or  enchanting  hearts, 
Should,  like  a  dew-drop  'neath  a  scorching  sky, 
Melt  and  mount  upward  to  its  home  on  high. 

Some  years  ago,  one  cold  December  day, 
A  little  stranger  came  along  our  way, 
And,  of  all  places  on  this  good  round  earth, 
Be^o-ed  for  admission  to  our  home  and  hearth, 

I9O 

And,  quick  as  lightning  through  yon  azure  darts, 
We  took  him  in  and  shrined  him  in  our  hearts. 
He  was  a  stranger  whom  we'd  never  seen, 
But  yet  we  gladly  took  the  stranger  in  ; 
The  mild  blue  eyes  that  shot  their  beams  about, 
Showed  the  sweet  spirit  that  was  looking  out ; 
The  spacious  head  and  high  arched  brow  bespoke 
The  dread  machinery   of  a  soul  new  woke. 
O  !  day  by  day  we  watched  with  purest  joy 
The  young  revealings  of  that  little  boy. 
Affection   tender  as  an  angel's  filled 
His  little  heart  and  every  other  thrilled ; 
His  gentle  spirit,  if  it  flashed,  was  brought 
Mild  as  a  lamb's  at  one  calm  hint  from  thought; 
And  though  e'en  prouder  than  a  lord  or  earl, 
At  being  a  boy  instead  of  being  a  girl, 
Yet  not  the  purest  and  most  charming  miss 


4  OUR    CHARLIE. 

E'er  gave  a  sweeter  or  a  heartier  kiss. 

His  manly  manners,  manly  looks  and  airs, 

And  business  ways  of  aping  man's  aftairs ; 

His  wise  remarks,  precocious  thoughts  and  views, 

And  reasonings  often  such  as  sages  use  ;  — 

All  these  things  told  us,  with  a  prophet  tongue, 

That  so  much  promise  could  not  perish  young. 

O  manly  boy!  yet  tender,  sweet,  and  mild, 
The  hero  almost,  yet  the  trusting  child; 
The  little  traveller  gathering  up  the  lore 
Of  his  own  land  and  many  a  foreign  shore  ; 
The  little  linguist,  who,  without  alloy, 
Could  gibber  French  like  any  Gallic  boy ; 
Who  talked  of  Paris,  Florence,  London,  Rome, 
Familiar  almost  as  of  home,  sweet  home ! 
And  with  his  blocks  made  coliseums  stand, 
And  reared  St.  Peter's  with  his  cunning  hand  ; 
And  talked  of  strolls  through  London  parks  so  green, 
Where  rode  the  princes,  princesses,  and  queen  ; 
And  how,  in  Paris,  our  pro  tempore  home, 
He  went  with  Helen  and  his  nurse  to  roam 
Through  parks  and  gardens,  the  most  charming  ones, 
Brimful  of  children  with  their  white -capped  lonnes ; 
And  how  at  Florence  he  was  wont  to  rove 
That  gay  Cascine  that  a  nymph  might  love, 
And  thread  the  walks  of  Boboli's  parterre, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  5 

Or  Pitti  Palace  midst  the  wonders  there  ; 

And  how  at  Rome,  at  old  imperial  Rome, 

He  walked  St.  Peter's  'neath  its  lofty  dome, 

Saw  coliseums  with  their  huge  high  walls, 

Old  ruined  temples,   columns,  arches,  halls  ; 

And  where  he  oft  drank  gladness  to  the  fill, 

'Midst  walks  and  flowers  upon  the  Pincian  Hill, 

Where  the  elite  from  earth's  remotest  bounds 

Walk  in  gay  groups  all  o'er  the  fairy  grounds ; 

And  often  saw,  upon  its  flowery  slope, 

The  gaudy  Cardinals  and  the  poor  old  Pope  ; 

And  how,  at  Naples,  roving  day  by  day, 

He  saw  the  beauties  of  that  charming  bay; 

Or  walked  Pompeii's  ancient  streets  exhumed, 

Which  twenty  centuries  almost  had  entombed ; 

Or  saw  Vesuvius,  black  with  lava  strown, 

Throw  sulphurous  smoke  up  from  its  swelling  cone  ; 

Or  saw,  when  night  wrapped  all  in  gloom  below, 

Her  spacious  sea  of  red  hot  lava  glow. 

O  blessed  boy,  who  all  these  gems  had  shrined 
Within  the  memory  for  his  opening  mind  : 
The  little  flowerets  clipped  by  childhood's  knife, 
To  strew  the  pathway  of  his  future  life. 

O  !  as  we  watched  his  first  expanding  thought, 
Out  of  the  lore  of  rich  experience   wrought, 


6  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  saw  his  mind,  far,  far  beyond  his  years, 
By  his  own  skill  forge  almost  man's  ideas, 
And  how  his  heart  breathed  sweeter  every  hour, 
As  fields  and  gardens  with  each  new-blown  flower ! 
O  !    then    we    thought,  indeed  we  seemed  to  know, 
That  Charlie  had  a  mission  here  below  ; 
And  from  the  way  that  mission  had  begun, 
We  fondly  thought  'twould  be  no  common  one. 

When  five  short  years,  and  seven  fleet  months  beside, 
Had  rolled  away,  the  little  fellow  died  ; 
Died,  while  the  buds  of  intellectual  power 
Were  forming,  swelling,  opening,   every  hour ; 
Died,  while  his  heart,  e'en  in  a  world  like  this, 
Was  gathering  honey  for  a  feast  of  bliss ; 
Died  when,  poor  boy,  he  daily  seemed  to  give 
New  proofs  and  promise  he  would  surely  live. 

Then  we  bent  down  above  his  little  bier, 
And  wet  his  grave  with  sorrow's  gushing  tear, 
And  said,  alas  !  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh, 
O !  'tis  a  mystery  such  a  boy  should  die  ! 

When  Spring  steps  forth,  and  with  inspiring  breath, 
Bursts  the  sere  pall  of  Nature's  wintry  death, 
And  herb  and  tree  start  gayly  up,  and  fling 
Their  sweetest  offerings  in  the  lap  of  Spring : 


OUR    CHARLIE.  1 

The  leafless  orchards  with  their  naked  brows 
First  string  their  leaflets  on  their  Gothic  boughs, 
Then  in  the  train  gay  Flora  brings  her  gems, 
With  lavish  kindness  for  the  countless  steins,  — 
Go  to  that  orchard  clad  in  beauty  now, 
And  count  the  blossoms  on  the  smallest  bough. 
When  Winter  shaking  all  her  clouds  of  snow 
In  fleecy  showers  upon  chill  earth  below, 
Though  every  flake  should  on  the  branches  light, 
That  fruit-tree  could  not  be  more  gay  and  white. 
O  !  one  as  well  might  rove  by  yonder  sea, 
And  count  the  sands  as  blossoms  on  that  tree. 
But  go  when  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  foot, 
Calls  from  that  bloom  the  ruddy  ripened  fruit, 
One  moment's  eifort  will  suffice  to  show 
How  many  apples  on  the  branches  grow, 
And  'twill  appear  that  most  of  all  that  bloom 
Went  to  the  silence  of  an  early  tomb. 
But  very  few  within  that  lovely  bower 
Reached,  in  life's  course,  the  manhood  of  a  flower. 

How  few  the  flowers  of  Flora's  royal  blood 
Have  reared  their  offspring  farther  than  the  bud  ! 
Though  full  of  beauty,  full  of  sweet  perfume, 
They  pass  unopened  to  the  fetid  tomb. 
Or  if  they  burst  and  throw  their  beauties  out, 
And  sweetly  breathe  upon  the  bowers  about, 


8  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Earth,  sea,  and  air,  brimful  of  fiendish  foes, 
Crush  more  than  half  with  their  unfriendly  blows, 
And  few  there  are,  just  like  their  masters,  men, 
That  reach  a  floweret's  threescore  years  and  ten. 

How  grand  the  schemes  ambitious  mortals  lay, 
And  yet  how  poor  the  several  parts  they  play  ! 
Like  earth's  cathedrals,  we  can  find  scarce  one, 
On  which  is  carved  the  magic  motto  "  Done." 
That  "  dream  of  beauty,"  decking  Milan's  street, 
Will  reel  and  tumble  ere  'tis  quite  complete ; 
And  that  huge  pile,  the  magic  of  Cologne, 
Will  fall,  ere  Art  has  laid  the  topmost  stone  ; 
And  human  progress,  while  in  mid  career, 
Will  join  the  crash  of  this  terraqueous  sphere. 

The  studious  sage,  charged  high  with  learning's  lore. 
And  all  inspired  to  go  and  gather  more, 
Spares  no  expense,  no  labor,  pains,  or  toil, 
And  lights  up  research  with  the  midnight  oil. 
And  when  the  spade,  thrust  in  the  cumbrous  mould, 
Strikes  on  a  vein  of  purest  virgin  gold, 
And  but  a  few  poor  worthless  spades-full  more 
Must  be  removed  to  reach  the  virgin  ore, 

~  * 

The  insatiate  archer,  with  malicious  thrust, 
Strikes  down  the  sage  to  mix  in  vulgar-  dust, 
The  spade  drops  down,  the  chasm  disappears, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  9 

Filled  with  the  debris  of  succeeding  years, 
And  "  labor  lost "  is  chiselled  on  the  stones 
That  mark  the  pillow  of  his  crumbling  bones, 
And  ages  more  must  send  the  sage  again, 
Who'll  ope  the  chasm  and  work  the  virgin  vein. 

Invention,  looking  with  a  prescient  eye, 
Sees  unformed  magic  all  in  embryo  lie  ; 
And  though  gaunt  want  stand  frowning  at  the 

door, 

And  toil  and  hardship  hedge  the  way  before, 
And  lordly  wealth,  to  princely  fortune  born, 
Points  its  gemmed  finger  with  disdain  and  scorn, 
It  toils  and  toils  in  \vant,  neglect,  and  pain, 
Encouraged,  thwarted,  yet  resolved  again, 
Till  just  as  it  has  bidden  doubts  "  Good-night," 
And  formed  and  grouped  the  magic  agents  right, 
And  there  is  now  but  just  one  day  between 
The  imperfect  model  and  complete  machine, 
And  earth's  applause  almost  begins  to  start, 
And  fill  the  inventor's  long,  long  burdened  heart, 
The  load  of  ills,  'neath  which  he's  staggered  so, 
Deals  its  dark  work  and  lays  the  victim  low. 
He  reels,  he  falls,  and  as  he  gasps  and  dies, 
With  his  last  grasp  unloosing  from  the  prize, 
The  wise,  wise  world  declares  it  and  believes, 
"  How  little,  usaful,  genius  e'er  achieves." 


10  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Some  lucky  wight  who  saw  the  victim  reel, 
And  the  last  blow  that  he  designed  to  deal, 
Just  strikes  that  blow,  the  magic  to  evoke, 
And  genius'  dream  stands  marshalled  from  the  stroke. 
The  chance-made  genius,  more  than  hero  noAv, 
Wears  the  blight  wreath  meant  for  another's  brow. 

In  fortune's  race,  though  all  contend  and  run, 
O  !  by  how  few  the  glittering  prize  is  won  ! 
Rags  flaunt  and  flutter  o'er  the  rolling  globe, 
Ten  thousand  times  to  one  e'en  decent  robe  ; 
And  if  one,  ever  upon  land  or  wave, 
Gained  all  he  hoped  and  all  he  wished  to  have, 
He  must  have  been,  if  not  a  mythic  thing, 
Some  richer  rich  man  than  the  Lydian  king. 
Hopes  crushed  in  myriads  perish  at  the  root, 
To  one  bright  hope  that  blossoms  into  fruit. 

In  yonder  wood,  the  scene  of  many  a  chase, 

Young  saplings  start  up  of  surpassing  grace. 

O  !  when  they've  grown  up  high  and  broad  as  these, 

Those  that  come  here  will  see  unblemished  trees, 

And  this  green  wood,  now  shapeless  and  defaced, 

Will  be  a  scene  of  faultless  Gothic  taste. 

Alas  !  the  world,  when  this  old  wood  was  young, 

The  siren  song  that  we  are  singing,  sung  ; 

The  saplings  then  were  like  the  saplings  now, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  11 

Without  a  blemish  in  a  limb  or  bough. 
But  thousands,  when  but  tender  nurslings,  died, 
As  many  maimed  or  ruined  at  their  side  ; 
And  these  old  trees  that  now  the  forest  deck- 
Are  all  that  really  have  survived  the  wreck, 
And  of  all  these  that  in  this  maze  we  see, 
Not  one  old  veteran  is  a  perfect  tree, 
And  tortuous  shrubs  in  every  tangled  nook 
Give  to  the  graceful  many  an  ugly  crook  ; 
As  a  fair  boy,  sweet,  lovely,  beauteous,  mild, 
Grows  a  rough  man,  unlovely,  wicked,  wild, 
So  these  young  plants,   symmetric  as  can  be, 
Are  dead  or  maimed,  or  such  as  these  we  see. 

There's  nothing  here  that  has  the  skill  or  power 
To  make  life  certain  for  a  single  hour, 
Nor  has  the  potence  to  detain  one  breath, 
That  stands  between  it  and  the  monster,  death. 
Though  toward  success  the  wisest  project  speeds, 
It  oftener  stops  or  stumbles  than  succeeds  ; 
And  beauty's  germs  will,  into  being  warmed, 
Oft  die  or  grow  up  ugly  and  deformed. 

The  matchless  diamond  in  the  womb  of  earth, 
Must  pass  along  through  centuries  to  its  birth, 
Yet  for  each  gem  in  all  its  charms  arrayed, 
Unnumbered  perish  by  the  hoe  and  spade  ; 


12  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  unknown  thousands,  to  perfection  brought, 
Lie  in  the  earth  unvalued  and  unsought. 
And,  when  earth  dies,  within  her  hills  and  moors, 
There'll  sleep  unnumbered  unformed  Koh-i-noors. 
Earth,  meant  to  till,  and  be  at  length  subdued, 
Will  melt  at  last,  half  sterile,  rough,  and  rude. 

'Twas  meant  that  skill  should   train   our  fruits    and 

flowers, 

To  rival  those  that  grow  in  heavenly  bowers  ; 
Yet  skill,  when  striving  to  her  latest  WOAV, 
Will  ne'er  plant  gardens  such  as  Heaven's  below. 
Progress  on  earth,  however  swiftly  driven, 
Will  ne'er  reach  half  way  to  the  gates  of  heaven  ; 
The  prancing  steeds  that  draw  her  chariot  fret, 
And  lose  much  time  in  many  a  gay  curvet ; 
And  although  upward  is  their  general  bent, 
The  path  oft  suffers  an  abrupt  descent. 
Exhumed  creations,  daily  brought  to  view, 
Show  men  have  done  what  moderns  cannot  do ; 
And  as  in  rocks,  as  plain  as  Saxon  words, 
We  read  of  known  and  unknown  beasts  and  birds, 
So  midst  the  debris  of  old  time  we  sit, 
And  see  "lost  arts"  all  o'er  the  rubbish  writ. 

Invention  never  gives  us  something  new, 
Till  we've  some  mission  for  the  thine;  to  do  : 


OUR    CHARLIE.  13 

Want  goes  ahead,  and  wit  behind  it  hies, 
And  brings  the  rear  up  with  its  fresh  supplies. 
In  Eden's  ground,  a  Fulton  with  his  steam 
Had  found  its  mission  useless  as  a  dream ; 
And  all  earth's  navies,  were  they  all  afloat, 
Had  been  as  useless  as  a  schoolboy's  boat, 
Had  Galileo,  with  capacious  soul, 
Ne'er  made  the  needle  show  the  unseen  pole  ; 
And  the  fierce  Congos,  with  a  hearty  laugh, 
Would  hail  the  approach  of  Morse's  telegraph  ; 
Though  it  were   stretched  around  earth's  broad  do 
main, 

Till  it  should  enter  Congo's  fields  again, 
No  friend  would  e'er  send  greeting  to  a  friend. 
Nor  merchant  have  one  short  dispatch  to  send. 

Hard,  earnest  labor  is  the  price  we  pay 
For  every  inch  of  Progress'  upward  way  ; 
Rest  but  an  instant,  and  the  cortege  stops, — 
Her  horses  falter,  and  the  chariot  drops, 
And  not  till  man  gives  labor  heart  and  brain, 
Will  Progress  ever  rise  aloft  again. 

Peace  reigns,  and  labor  plies  its  merry  blows, 
And  Progress  upward  like  an  eagle  goes ; 
War  marches  forward  with  an  angry  frown, 
Toil  stops,  and  Progress  drives  its  chariot  down ; 


14  OUR    CHARLIE. 

War  spends  its  wrath  and  labor  works  amain, 
And  then  the  chariot  mounts  aloft  again. 
Ah,  casualties,  too  great  to  number,  play 
In  Progress'  track,  and  block  the  upward  way : 
Half  of  man's  powers  at  every  fresh  attack 
Must  lose  much  time  in  clearing  off  the  track. 
Old  Ocean  is  not,  of  all  things  below, 
The  sole  creation  made  to  ebb  and  flow  : 
Earth's  history  has,  down  from  its  earliest  age, 
Mutation  written  upon  every  page. 

When  man  grows  perfect,  Progress  will  arise, 
And  both  together  be  in  Paradise ; 
Because,  when  man  has  to  perfection  striven, 
That  place  must  be,  where'er  it  is,  a  heaven  ; 
But  as  perfection  ne'er  existed  here, 
Progress  must  stop  e'en  while  in  mid  career. 

Each  moral  plant,  though  nurtured  here  in  lovo, 
Will  bear  its  blossoms  and  its  fruits  above  ; 
We  catch  some  glimpses  oftentimes  below 
Of  charms  to  come  when  they  shall  ope  and  blow, 
And  oft  a  foretaste  of  that  fruit  is  given, 
That  we  shall  eat  if  we  e'er  mount  to  heaven  ; 
But  the  full  harvest  of  the  fruits  and  flowers 
Can  ne'er,  this  side  of  Paradise,  be  ours. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  15 

Our  olive  plants,  that  in  our  homesteads  grow, 
And  make  them  almost  Edens  here  below, 
Bear  fruits  enough  to  fill  them  full  of  love, 
But  the  ripe  fruit  grows  nowhere  but  above. 

Earth's   but   the  nursery  from  whose  verdant  grove 
The  plants  spring  up  to  set  in  fields  above, 
And  life's  the  school  where  young  immortals  come, 
And  train  their  hearts  for  their  unending  home  ; 
And  if  prepared  before  ourselves  to  go, 
Could  we  detain  them  one  short  hour  below  ? 

God's  plans  are  countless,  yet  they  smoothly  run, 

And  twine   themselves  in  one  harmonious  one, — 

Forever  twining,  never  wholly  twined, 

'Tis  perfect  only  in  the  omniscient  mind. 

The  noblest  life,  the  noblest  ever  spent, 

Is  but  a  thread  for  that  grand  purpose  meant. 

The  hearty  patriot  sees  the  foeman  stand, 

And  threat  destruction  to  his  native  land ; 

His  swelling  bosom  full  to  bursting  nigh, 

He  girds  his  sword  upon  his  manly  thigh ; 

And  while  his  spirit  burning  high  inspires 

His  gathering  hosts  with  kindred  hopes  and  fires, 

He  leads  them  on  with  heart  that  will  not  quail, 

Amidst  the  screaming  of  the  leaden  hail. 

O  !  God  will  shield  him,  God  will  spare  the  brave, 


16  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Nor  let  young  hope  go  bleeding  to  the  grave  ! 

'Tis  but  for  freedom,  but  for  human  rights, 

For  all  that's  sacred  that  the  hero  fights. 

On,  warriors,  on  ;  rush  to  the  combat  now, 

And  victory's  wreaths  shall  deck  the  victor's  brow ; 

Raise  high  the  standard,  let  the  banners  wave  ; 

O  !  rush  to  victory  or  the  martyr's  grave. 

The  grave,  —  O,  yes,  the  gallant  hero  reels, 
And  Lyon  falls  beneath  his  horse's  heels,  — 
Falls  while  the  banner  to  the  breeze  is  flung, 
Falls  while  the  war-shout  lingers  on  his  tongue. 
O  !  how  it  made  the  patriot's  life-blood  chill, 
When  martyred  Warren  fell  on  Bunker  Hill  ; 
And  how  each  good  heart  throbbed  the  funeral  knell, 
When  Winthrop  bled  and  gallant  Baker  fell ! 
And  thousands,  thousands  in  our  country's  fight, 
For  Justice,  Union,  Liberty,  and  Right, 
Fall  ere  the  prize  for  which  they  fight  is  won, 
Fall  when  their  mission  has  but  just  begun, 
Fall  while  the  Nation,  looking  at  the  brave, 
Feel  they're  the  ones  that  Heaven  has  sent  to  save. 

A  little  being  of  mysterious  birth, 
Pure  as  a  dew-drop,  comes  to  visit  earth ; 
With  eager  haste,  the  little  foundling's  pressed, 
Among  the  down  of  fond  Affection's  breast, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  17 

And  bonds  of  love  too  strong  for  aught  to  part 

Twine  in  an  instant  every  throbbing  heart. 

Ha  !  manhood's  stamped,  not  indistinct  and  dim, 

On  every  feature,  lineament,  and  limb, 

And  through  those  eyes  that  timid  look  about, 

The  new-waked  soul  is  slyly  looking  out, 

And  with  a  power  and  majesty  unseen, 

It  sets  in  play  the  marvellous  machine. 

At  first  mere  play,  and  then  the  mimic  strife, 

Made  by  mere  fancy  aping  genuine  life. 

In  each  new  feat,  new  skill  and  potence  lurk, 

The  pleasant  transit  out  of  play  to  work. 

Ah,  little  one,  God  surely  has  for  you 

Some  lofty  mission  in  this  world  to  do ; 

He  is  too  wise  to  send  a  sage  below, 

And  smite  before  he  strikes  one  earnest  blow, 

And  far  too  good  to  crush  a  noble  boy, 

Just  entering  o'er  the  threshold  of  employ. 

But  Charlie  dies ;  the  little  hero  falls  ; 

The  One  that  sent  him  to  the  earth  recalls. 

Heaven  has  another  ransomed  one  to  bless, 

And  home,  our  home,  one  little  cherub  less ; 

And  that  high  mission  to  our  Charlie  given 

Is  so  divine,  it  must  be  done  in  heaven. 

Were  man  omniscient,  seeing  near  and  far, 
And  found  in  Nature  one  discordant  jar, 
2 


18  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Well  might  he  boldly,  proudly,  walk  abroad, 
And  play  stern  critic  of  the  works  of  God. 

Till  we  can  trace  our  little  martyr's  doom, 

Forever  onward,  e'en  beyond  the  tomb, 

And  find  how  much  life's  fleetness  here  below 

Affects  the  future  of  his  weal  or  woe, 

'Twere  worse  than  folly,  worse  than  impious  even, 

To  say,  "  'Tis  strange,"  of  any  act  of  Heaven. 

The  very  thought  implies  a  lack  of  trust, 

And  that  we  almost  think  kind  Heaven  unjust. 

If,  like  chastising,  as  the  Hebrew  sung, 

'Tis   God's   "  strange   work,"    this   cutting  down  our 

young, 

'Tis  passing  strange,  this  self-same  feature  lurks 
In  all  God's  actions  and  through  all  his  works ; 
And  either  God  is  wicked  and  unwise, 
Or  finite  optics  are  our  mortal  eyes, 
And  of  all  demons  he  would  be  the  worst, 
Who  dares  to  say  the  truthful  is  the  first. 

O  !  when  promoted  to  the  school  above, 
Where  the  Great  Teacher  is  the  God  of  love, 
All  seeming  jars  that  sound  so  harshly  here 
Will  be  all  harmony  in  a  ransomed  ear ; 
All  seeming  wrong,  illumed  by  heavenly  light, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  19 

Will  prove  the  essence  of  the  true  and  right ; 
Our  little  ones,  snatched  from  a  mother's  care 
In  all  their  beauty,  are  more  beauteous  there, 
And,  although  severed  to  their  new  employ, 
Act  loftier  parts  in  that  pure  world  of  joy, 
And  though  they  seem  an  injury  to  sustain, 
Death  in  life's  morning  brings  a  world  of  gain. 

Come,  faith,  pure  envoy,  to  this  world  below, 

The  heaven  of  rest  to  mortal  eyes  to  show, 

O  !  let  the  truth  upon  our  hearts  be  graven, 

That  our  lost  Charlie  is  at  home  in  heaven  ; 

That  God  knows  well  what  moment  would  be  best, 

To  call  his  dear  ones  to  be  loved  and  blest. 

And  though  the  tear  will  oft  unbidden  start, 

And  sighs  come  bursting  from  the  aching  heart, 

Let  us  thank  God  that  when  our  dear  ones  die, 

Relief  comes  gushing  in  a  tear  or  sigh, 

And  that  life's  path,  though  ending  soon  or  late, 

Is  long  enough  to  reach  the  pearly  gate, 

And  sundered  ties,  though  seeming  formed  in  vain, 

Are  sure  hereafter  to  reknit  again. 

& 

O  !  Charlie,  Charlie !  thy  sweet  image  yet 
Lives  in  our  hearts  too  vivid  to  forget, 
And  ne'er  will  fade  till  life  itself  departs, 
And  tliou,  once  more,  art  nestling  in  our  hearts. 


20  OUR '  CHARLIE. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think,  dear,  darling  little  boy, 
That  thou'rt  a  cherub  in  that  home  of  joy; 
Yet,  midst  that  sweetness,  shoot  the  pangs  of  woe, 
To  think  we're  lingering  without  thee  below; 
And  then  we  bid  the  gushing  tear-drops  sleep, 
And  end  it  all  by  sitting  down  to  weep. 

Dear  little  boy  !  when  thou  wast  here  below, 
Thy  heart  with  sweetness  used  to  overflow, 
And,  like  a  rose,  send  its  aroma  round, 
To  every  heart  within  its  magic  ground ; 
And  it  must  be,  that,  planted  up  above, 
Your  spotless  bosom  must  o'erflow  with  love. 


DO    SPIRITS   VISIT    EARTH  ? 

Do  little  spirits  in  your  upper  sphere, 
E'er  come  to  earth  and  visit  loved  ones  here? 
We've  sometimes  thought  a  little  fairy  thing 
Was  hovering  o'er  us  with  its  outspread  wing, 
And  while  it  poised  on  sparkling  wings  above, 
Dropped  down  some  honey  of  o'erflowing  love. 
Then   we  felt  pure,  and  then  we  harbored  not 
One  impure  feeling  or  unhallowed  thought ; 
And  had  grim  death  at  that  sweet  moment  come, 
He  had  been  welcome  to  our  pleasant  home. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  21 

Was  Charlie  there  ?     We've  asked  the  question  oft, 
And  then  our  hearts  in  gladness  rose  aloft ; 
Earth  then  seemed  nothing  but  the  eyry  given, 
Where  spirits  stop  to  plume  their  wings  for  heaven. 

O  !  if  pure  spirits  from  heaven's  realms  depart, 
"Tis  on  some  errand  to  the  pure  in  heart ; 
They  ne'er  hold  converse  in  the  realms  below, 
But  with  the  pure  or  panting  to  be  so. 

When  Charlie  lived,  it  made  him  doubly  blest, 

To  sit  and  nestle  in  a  parent's  breast ; 

He  only  knew  those  pillows  were  his  own : 

He  read  that  truth,  and  read  that  truth  alone. 

God  grant  he  loves  them  as  he  did  before, 

Now  that  he  reads  them  to  the  very  core  ; 

Then  will  his  loss,  that  filled  our  souls  with  pain, 

Prove  both  our  present  and  eternal  gain, 

And  we  shall  have  some  thrills  of  heavenly  joy, 

From  converse  sometimes  with  our  darling  boy. 


DEATH    SELDOM    COMES    AT    THE    RIGHT    TIME. 

'Tis  very  hard  when,  with  a  tearful  eye, 
We  have  to  stand  and  see  our  darlings  die ; 
And  harder  yet  to  lay  their  little  heads 


22  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Neath  the  green  velvet  of  their  mouldering  beds  ; 

But  bitterest  woe  when  we,  home's  threshold,  cross, 

And  in  dread  earnest  feel  the  bitter  loss ; 

The  widowed  heart,  all  smarting  'neath  the  rod, 

Can't  feel  the  wisdom  of  an  all-wise  God, 

And  half  thinks  somehow  'tis  injustice  done, 

Both  to  home's  circle  and  its  little  one. 

Alas  !  alas  !  in  every  age  and  clime, 
Death  comes  but  seldom  at  the  proper  time ; 
Too  soon  to  meet  the  trembling  victim's  views, 
The  monster  comes  with  his  unwelcome  news. 
If  it  seem  strange  God  takes  away  our  young, 
Just  as  life's  banner  to  the  breeze  is  flung, 
Or  when,  perhaps,  the  little  hero's  blows 
Begin  to  play  on  Progress'  stubborn  foes, 
Just  armed,  equipped,  and  fitted  for  the  strife 
Man  always  finds  in  the  rough  path  of  life  ; 
If  it  seem  strange,  mysterious,  or  unjust, 
That  dust  so  early  should  return  to  dust,  — 
The  same  three  words  with  equal  truth  apply 
To  all  that  die,  and  whensoe'er  they  die. 

THE    YOUNG    STUDENT. 

HE  was  a  boy,  —  I  knew  him  well,  whilom,  — 
A  fair,  young  hope-bud  in  the  bowers- of  home  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  23 

Among  the  group  that  filled  the  sweet  parterre^ 

He  was  the  sweetest  of  the  blossoms  there ; 

Mild  as  the  blue  of  yonder  cloudless  sky, 

The  soul  looked  laughing  from  his  beaming  eyo. 

Or  if  sometimes,  beneath  the  auburn  lash, 

The   soul  looked  outward  with  an  angry  flash, 

The  storm    soon   hushed,    the    rainbow   spanned   the 

plain, 
And  the  clear  sky  spread  out  its  blue  again. 

His  mind,  capacious,  vigorous,  clear,  and  strong, 
Saw  truth  and  grasped  it  in  the  way  along, 
With  his  keen  wit  shot  folly  as  it  flew, 
And  caught  at  error  where  the  rank  weeds  grew  ; 
Then,  with  the  game  well  basted  and  well  done, 
He  gave  his  friends  a  generous  feast  of  fun; 
And  all  within  his  sphere  of  friendship  found 
Felt  happier  far  when  Warren  was  around. 

At  length,  a  youth,  he  hasted  to  explore 
The  pure,  rich  fields  of  Greek  and  Roman  lore, 
And  pluck  the  fruits  the  goddess  Learning  yields, 
On  the  broad  acres  of  her  charming  fields. 

At  length,  a  student,  he  began  to  rove 
Within  his  honored  Alma  Mater's  grove, 
And  then,  dear  fellow,  almost  at  the  start, 


24  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  Saviour  came,  and  touched  his  generous  heart. 
His  soul  was  full,  his  bosom  leaped  with  love, 
And  his  glad  spirit  meekly  looked  above, 
And  then  we  thought  of  nothing  else  to  add, 
For  all  he  wanted  in  the  world  he  had; 
Then  life  seemed  nothing  with  its  witching  scenes, 
Weighed  as  an  end  against  it  as  a  means, 
And  all  earth's  luxuries  were  but  pauper  food, 
Compared  with  that  which  comes  from  doing  good. 

O  !  what  high  hopes  were  centred  in  that  boy  ! 
What  buds  of  promise  and  what  germs  of  joy  ! 
All  loved  that  met  him,  all  admired  that  knew, 
And  all  felt  sure  he'd  some  good  work  to  do, 
And  all  prophetic  felt  'twas  very  plain, 
That  so  much  promise  was  not  given  in  vain. 

O  !  how  devout  the  scholar  used  to  rove, 

In  thought  profound,  his  Alma  Mater's  grove  ; 

And  while  he  dug  for  Learning's  classic  ore, 

He  went  to  Calvary  for  its  holier  lore, 

And  mind  and  heart  in  sweetest  harmony  grew, 

And  linked  in  beauty  all  he  felt  and  knew, 

And  truth  and  goodness  lent  the  sword  and  shield 

To  their  young  champion,  soon  to  take  the  field. 

But  lo !  he  died,  —  died  like  a  new-lit  star ; 

Died,  while  yet  arming  for  the  coming  war; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  25 

Died,  while  hope's  sun  shone  brightest  in  its  sphere  ; 
Died,  while  all  thought  he  had  a  mission  here ; 
Died,  while  encircled  in  the  arms  of  love, 
Promoted  to  a  higher  school  above. 

How  strange  !   love  deemed  it  when  the  dear  youth 

died  ; 

Love  prayed  in  faith,  but  found  the  prayer  denied; 
Skill  tried  its  best  from  Science'  healing  store, 
And  friendship  nursed,  till  it  could  do  no  more. 
He  died,  and  all  said,  with  a  tear  and  sigh, 
How  strange    it    seemed   that    such    a   youth    should 

die  ! 

THE    STATESMAN    AND    CHRISTIAN. 

THERE  was  a  boy,  and  God  had  cast  his  lot, 

Not  in  a  prince's,  but  a  peasant's  cot ; 

Not  wealth  or  honor  greeted  him  at  birth, 

But  health  and  virtue,  his  ancestral  worth  ; 

The  world  showed  splendors  wheresoe'er  he   turned, 

With  none  for  him  untoiled  for  and  unearned, 

And  life,  to  wealth  a  scene  of  mirth  and  play, 

To  him  a  rugged  and  an  up-hill  way; 

But,  nothing  daunted,  the  young  tyro  rose, 

And  at  the  nigged  dealt  Herculean  blows, 

And  every  effort  in  the  hearty  strife 


26  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Made  the  way  smoother  in  the  path  of  life, 
And  the  same  blcws  that  made   the  rugged  smooth, 
Brought  up  bright  gems  of  virtue  and  of  truth, 
And  between  blows  made  recreation  even, 
The  school  to  aid  him  on  to  truth  and  heaven. 

Grace,  in  life's  morning,  dropping  from  above, 
Filled  his  young  bosom  with  a  Saviour's  love, 
And  life,  whatever  fortune  it  might  bring, 
Seemed  from  that  hour  a  consecrated  thing. 
He  sought  not  honors,  honors  sought  him  now, 
And  piled  the  garlands  on  his  noble  brow, 
And  at  length  placed  him,  at  his  country's  call, 
In  Freedom's  highest  legislative  hall. 
Then  his  State,  panting  for  his  skill  and  care, 
Called  him  and  set  him  in  her  highest  chair; 
Then  uncorrupt,  sound,  honest,  and  discreet, 
Gave  him  at  length  a  high  judicial  seat, 
Where  innocence  ne'er  asked  his  aid  in  vain, 
And  guilt,  once  there,  ne'er  wished  to  go  again. 
And  never,  midst  official  toil  and  strife, 
Did  he  forget  the  ills  and  woes  of  life  : 
Vice  at  his  presence  hid  its  hideous  head, 
And  Want's  gaunt  children  looked  to  him  for  bread, 
And  no  sweet  deed,  howe'er  unknown  or  dim, 
Appeared  too  humble  or  too  small  for  him. 
Whatever  act  had  potence  to  impart    •» 


OUR    CHARLIE.  27 

One  thrill  of  joy  to  sorrow's  shivering  heart ; 

Whatever  deed  had  magic  to  implant 

One  germ  of  plenty  in  the  home  of  want; 

Whatever  words,  spoke  kindly  in  the  ear, 

Could  vice  rebuke  or  modest  virtue  cheer,  — 

Those  acts  and  words  he  fitted  to  eacli  case, 

And  just  adapted  to  the  time  and  place. 

'Twas  on  a  mission  to  some  sufferers  near, 

He  was  that  morn  to  aid,  instruct,  and  cheer, 

He  rose  to  go,  and  passing  through  the  hall, 

Swept  by  a  gun  that  rested  'gainst  the  wall ; 

It  fell,  exploded,  and  the  good  man  stood 

In  a  red  pool  of  his  own  precious  blood. 

"  'Tis  come,"   said  he,  wThile  all  around  were  awed, 

"  'Tis  come  ;  be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God ! " 

His  country  called,  —  his  Henry  had  obeyed, 
And  led  his  hosts  where  her  gay  banners  played, 
And  at  the  moment  when  his  father  fell, 
Thought  of  sweet  home,  and  fancied  all  was  well. 

Love  bent  and  whispered  in  the  father's  ear, 
Shall  Henry  come,  to  aid  you  and  to  cheer? 
Shall  he  come  home,  and  at  your  bedside  stand, 
To  take  the  blessing  and  the  parting  hand  ? 
Shall  Henry  come,  to  kneel  once  more  beside 
So  kind  a  father  and  so  wise  a  guide  ? 


28  OUR    CHARLIE. 

"  No  !  as  I  look,  I  see  on  either  hand 
A.  bleeding  father  and  a  bleeding  land  ; 
Let  him  not  come,  but  to  the  rescue  fly, 
His  country  needs  him  far,  far  more  than  I ; 
So  like  a  soldier's  is  this  death  of  mine, 
God  may  accept  it,  gallant  boy,  for  thine  !  " 

And  thus  he  died,  just  as  experience'  lore 
Had  filled  his  bosom  full  to  running  o'er, 
And  head  and  heart  knit  with  a  well-earned  fame, 
Backed  by  the  magic  of  a  spotless  name, 
Made  him  that  moment  where  he  proudly  stood, 
Most  ripe  for  fame,  most  fit  for  doing  good. 
The  world  looked  on,  and,  with  a  tearful  eye, 
Said,  how  mysterious  such  a  man  should  die, 
While  at  each  turn  in  common  life  are  found 
Myriads  who're  only  cumberers  of  the  ground, 
Whom  had  God's  thunders  long  ago  destroyed, 
The  world  had  been  far  better  for  the  void  ! 


THE    WIDOWS    SON. 

THERE  was  a  boy,  —  a  widowed  mother's  son,  — 
Her  sweet  heart-blossom,  —  'twas  her  only  one  ; 
'Neath  Love's  soft  wing  he  felt  a  mother's  care, 
And  wished  no  Eden  but  the  sweet  one  there. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  29 

'Twas  no  weak  mother,  with  a  doating  pride, 

Had  that  young  boy  to  counsel  and  to  guide ; 

Her  heart  all  chastened  by  Affliction's  rod, 

And  calmly  leaning  on  the  arm  of  God, 

She  felt  that  boy  was,  in  her  bosom,  given, 

To  train  for  honor,  usefulness,  and  heaven. 

What  need  of  aid  that  Christian  mother  felt, 

The  altar  witnessed  where  she  daily  knelt ; 

What  counsel  asked  she  of  her  heavenly  guide, 

Her  closet  witnessed  —  no  one  else  beside. 

Her  prayers  were  heard,  and  counsel  from  above 

Came  down  to  aid  and  consecrate  her  love ; 

And,  while  a  boy,  the  Friend  of  childhood  bent, 

And  the  pure  spirit  of  adoption  sent. 

O  !  what  a  future  seemed  for  him  to  ope 

To  the  fond  heart  and  eager  eye  of  hope  ; 

His  was  a  mind  that  seemed,  in  earliest  youth, 

To  feast  itself  upon  the  richest  truth ; 

His  was  a  heart  where  virtue's  germ  was  set, 

And  all  the  graces  of  the  Christian  met, 

And  when  at  length  he  went  away  to  rove, 

And  thread  the  paths  in  Academus'  grove, 

Each  little  learner  with  ambition  fired, 

Looked  up  to  him  and  wondered  and  admired, 

And  the  dear  centre  of  the  love  and  joy 

Of  those  young  tyros  was  that  youthful  boy. 

O  !  how  they'd  cluster  round  him  in  their  sports, 


30  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Their  mimic  gatherings,  and  their  mimic  courts ! 
And  the  bright  sky  of  that  gay  school  was  dim, 
Without  the  presence  and  the  smiles  of  him. 
The  green,  high  mountains  that  begirt  his  home, 
The  rough-tilled  fields  o'er  which  he  loved  to  roam, 
The  babbling  brooks  that  leaped  adown  the  hill, 
The  mimic  lakes  the  brooklets  came  to  fill,  — 
All  had  a  charm  so  potent,  'twould  entice 
The  little  rovers  from  the  haunts  of  vice. 

A  mimic  lake,  scooped  by  the  hand  of  art, 
Lay  in  a  grove  encircled  and  apart ; 
Its  glassy  face,  without  a  ripple,  sprea'l, 
A  crystal  sheet  above  the  pebbly  bed, 
And  oft  attracted  thither  to  the  wave, 
The  merry  tyros  used  to  come  ;u  d  lave. 

The  sky  was  clear,  and  Sol's  solstitial  r.iy 
Streamed  down  to  earth  and  made  a  pleasant  day ; 
The  merry  youth  went  out  with  nimble  feet, 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  green  retreat, 
And  with  his   comrades,  with  their  heyday  cheered, 
Plunged  in  the  flood,  and  quickly  disappeared; 
Ah !  disappeared,,  for  when  their  sports  were  done, 
Among  the  throng  there  was  no  widow's  son. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  31 

On  yonder  couch  behold  him  sleeping  now, 

That  boy  of  promise  with  the  noble  brow, 

That  widow's  son,  brought  up  and  trained  with  care, 

Wrapped  in  a  sleep  that  knows  no  waking  there. 

That  mother  —  see  her  mildly  drawing  nigh  — 

Calm  as  her  lost  one,  with  a  tearless  eye, 

Parts  the  bright  locks  upon  his  manly  brow, 

And  plants  a  kiss  upon  the  mimic  snow, 

And  says,  My  son,  gone,  gone  to  thy  reward ; 

Well,  long  ago,  I  gave  thee  to  the  Lord. 

Alas  !  how  strange,  since  death  might  take  but  one, 
His  dreaded  bolt  should  strike  the  widow's  son ; 
Strange  it  should  be  at  such  a  victim  hurled, 
That  it  should  wound  the  widow  and  the  world. 


THE    ONLY    SON. 

THERE'S  a  fair  city  on  New  England's  Thames, 
One  of  her  sweetest  architectural  gems, 
Where  stately  mansions,  filled  with  beauty,  lift, 
And  lovely  dwellings,  reared  by  toil  and  thrift, 
And  where  home-bliss,  in  like  profusion,  comes 
To  stately  mansions  and  to  humble  homes, 
And  few,  how  few,  of  all  her  thousands  dwell 
In  want's  chill  cot  or  vice's  gloomy  cell, 


32  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  church  and  school  impart  their  aid  before 
The  little  traveller  reaches  manhood's  door, 
And  thus  he  enters  on  life's  active  field, 
Armed  cap-a-pie  with  helmet,  spear,  and  shield; 
Where  spacious  streets,  smooth  as  Macadam's  roads, 
Conduct  the  traveller  to  her  grand  abodes, 
And  huge  old  trees,  that  form  one  Gothic  arch, 
Make  marching  through  them  one  triumphant  march  ; 
Where  Nature's  features  all  in  harmony  chime, 
The  charming,  fair,  and  rugged  and  sublime. 
The  smooth  Shetucket,  that  in  beauty  glides, 
And  gayly  mingles  in  the  briny  tides ; 
The  foaming  Yantic,  whirling  mill-wheels  round, 
Then  leaping  cataracts  seaward  at  a  bound  ; 
The  Thames,  where  Commerce  her  white  sails  un 
furls, 

And  joins  Tier  interests  with  the  outer  world's,  — 
These  make  that  city  on  the  river  Thames 
One  of  the  sweetest  of  New  England's  gems. 

Well,  in  that  city,  so  like  Eden  decked, 

Two  bosoms  throb  at  sorrow's  retrospect. 

Once  their  glad  hearts,  and  their  beloved  boy's, 

Beat  in  a  house  full  of  domestic  joys, 

So  blent  together,  sorrow,  in  one  breast, 

"Shot  the  same  pang  of  anguish  through  the  rest ; 

And  thus  that  trio,  as  they  daily  roved 


OUR    CHARLIE.  33 

Along  life's  pathway,  labored,  lived,  and  loved. 
Where  is  the  spot  beneath  yon  spreading  dome 
So  much  like  heaven  as  a  New  England  home  ? 
Where  fond  affection  knit  with  thrift  and  health, 
Though  gold  it  bring  not,  brings  enough  of  wealth, 
And  crown  and  throne  and  glory's  loftiest  niche 
Might  make  more  wealthy,  not  a  whit  more  rich. 
O,  yes,  of  bliss,  the  sweetest  fruitage  comes 
From  plants  well  trained  in  our  New  England  homes. 

They  had  one  boy  —  it  was  their  only  one  — 
An  only  child  as  well  as  only  son. 
They  loved  that  boy,  yet  'twas  their  daily  prayer 
To  make  no  idol  of  their  darling  there  ; 
They  loved  their  Saviour  with  a  love  so  true, 
They  wished  their  son  to  love  and  serve  him  too. 
With  them  religion  was  a  pleasant  plant ; 
Who  can  be  cheerful,  if  the  Christian  can't  ? 
No  sour,  morose,  or  chilling  look  or  air 
Was  ever  mingled  with  parental  care  ; 
By  nature  genial,  God's  redeeming  grace, 
Ne'er  swept  the  sunbeams  from  the  merry  face  ; 
And  so  Religion,  to  that  merry  boy, 
Came  robed  in  beauty,  innocence,  and  joy, 
And  seemed  to  him,  e'en  in  a  world  like  this, 
A  thing  of  love,  a  synonyme  of  bliss  ; 
And  those  fond  parents  saw  with  faith's  clear  eye, 
3 


34  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  boy  would  be  a  Christian,  by  and  by  ; 
And,  in  old  age,  when  earthly  charms  grew  dim, 
They  fondly  hoped  that  they  might  lean  on  him. 
O  !  if  there  was  beneath  yon  azure  dome 
One  unspoiled  Eden,  'twas  that  happy  home  ; 
They  scarcely  dreamed,  or  seemed  to  quite  forget, 
That  their  small  circle  might  be  smaller  yet, 
And  laid  their  plans,  as  if  their  plans  would  stay 
Throughout  life's  changes  to  its  closing  day. 

'Tis  ever  thus,  —  till  blessings  take  their  flight, 
We  very  seldom  look  upon  them  right ; 
We  toil  for  wealth  and  then  so  firmly  clasp, 
We  feel  that  nothing  can  unloose  the  grasp  : 
We  pant  for  honor  with  unslaking  thirst, 
Grasp  it,  and  see  the  empty  bubble  burst ; 
And  though  all  things  are  fragile  as  the  flowers, 
We  think,  alas  !  'twill  not  be  so  with  ours  ; 
And  though  earth's  setting,  every  day,  new  stones 
Above  the  ashes  of  our  little  ones, 
Each  parent  thinks  God  will  his  darling  save, 
To  plant  the  stones  above  his  adult  grave. 

'Twas  winter  now,  and  Nature  slept  below 
A  funeral  pall  of  chilly  ice  and  snow  ; 
The  little  rills  that  sumrner  waked  around, 
Were  fettered  firmly  as  a  prisoner  bound  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  35 

The  leafy  trees  and  flowers,  with  balmy  breath, 

Slept  still  as  if  within  the  embrace  of  death  ; 

The    Thames    was    screened   with   glittering    crystal 

round, 
Which    spread    far    onward    toward    the    treacherous 

sound ; 

The  frantic   Yantic,  down  the  rapids  tossed, 
Ran  to  the  Thames  unfettered  by  the  frost; 
The  gay  Shetucket,  down  its  native  pass, 
Moved  'neath  a  screen  as  smooth  and  clear  as  o-lass  ; 

O 

And  to  his  eye,  who  midst  the  scenery  roams, 
All  would  seem  gloom  outside  the  genial  homes. 
But  hark  !  the  bells,  and  lo  !  the  merry  sleigh, 
With  merrier  spirits,  glides  along  the   way, 
And  round  the  streets  the  gay  and  joyous  shout 
Shows  plain  as  day  that  all  the  boys  are  out, 
And  each,  a  radius  of  the  merry  scene, 
Flies  toward  Shetucket  with  its  crystal  screen  ; 
And  there  was  Herbert  and  his  merry  mates, 
All  gliding  gayly  on  their  glittering  skates  ; 
Swift  as  an  arrow  shoots  across  the  sky, 
The  skaters  dart,  and  seem  almost  to  fly, 
Now  in  platoons,  and  moving  side  by  side, 
They  o'er  the  ice  in  graceful  movements  glide, 
Then,  like  a  rocket  bursting  in  the  sky, 
They  start,  and  off  at  different  angles  fly  ; 
Forward  or  backward,  on  one  foot  or  two, 


36  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Bent  like  a  crescent  or  inverted  U, 

They  leap  and  fly,  and  lines  and  circles  trace, 

And  do  it  all  with  faultless  ease  and  grace  ; 

The  laugh,  the  shout,  flushed  cheek,  and  flashing  eye, 

Show  health's  the  boon  the  merry  skaters  buy. 

O,  yes  !  there's  pleasure,  with  no  taint  of  vice, 

This  flying,  sailing,  o'er  the  crystal  ice  ; 

And  we  exclaim,  as  we  behold  the  joy,  — 

"  O  !  once  again  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ?  " 

The  brittle  ice,  —  it  bends,  it  breaks,  and  lo  ! 
The  little  urchins  in  the  waters  go, 
Then  rise  again,  and  many,  in  a  trice, 
Seize  hold,  and  gayly  leap  upon  the  ice  ; 
But  one,  still  in,  clings  to  the  ice's  brink, 
Holds  bravely  on,  resolving  not  to  sink. 
Cheer  up,  my  boy,  hold  on  a  little  more, 
We'll  bring  thee  succor,  and  'twill  all  be  o'er. 

Men  from  the  city  hasten  at  the  cry ; 

Men  from  the  cars,  for  they  were  passing  by. 

The  poor  boy  feels  benumbed,  and  chilled  with  frost, 

'Twill  soon  be  over,  and  his  grasp  be  lost, 

And  cries,  "  Good-by,  boys ;  it  is  almost  o'er ; 

Tell  mother" What?     Alas  !  he  said  no  more  ; 

The  blue  waves  oped,  and  on  the  pebbly  bed, 
Death  calmly  pillowed  little  Herbert's-  head. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  37 

Alas  !  alas  !  who  will  the  tidings  bear 

To  that  sweet  home,  and  plant  the  anguish  there  ? 

Who'll  tell  the  mother,  who'll  inform  the  sire, 

That  one  chair's  vacant  at  their  winter  fire  ? 

Who'll  plant  the  dagger  that  till  life  departs 

Will  ne'er  cease  rankling  in  their  wounded  hearts  ? 

Can  nothing  come  to  modify  the  pain 
When  the  dear  idols  of  our  hearts  are  slain  ? 

When  the  kind  mother,  at  the  sick  one's  bed, 
Spreads  the  down  softly  'neath  his  weary  head, 
Turns  his  tired  frame,  his  couch  to  rearrange, 
To  bring  relief  and  comfort  by  the  change, 
Lists  every  sigh,  hears  every  little  groan, 
And  whispers  comfort  to  the  weary  one, 
And  when  pain  racks  and  sorrow  overflows, 
Speaks  some  kind  word  to  win  him  from  his  woes, 
And  when  she  can  do  nothing  more  than  this, 
Bends  down  above  him  and  imprints  a  kiss, 
'Tis  sweet  to  think  when  all  at  length  is  past, 
She  tried  to  aid  him  to  the  very  last. 

But  when  the  mother  sees  her  darling  boy 
Go  out  for  sport  all  brimming  o'er  with  joy, 
She  feels  e'en  glad  that  where  her  boy  resorts 
He  joins  his  fellows  in  their  manly  sports, 


38  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  pride  perhaps  her  little  hero  can 
Go  out  and  in,  self-guided  like  a  man. 
No  anxious  cares  or  sad  forebodings  swell 
That  mother's  heart  that  all  may  not  be  well ; 
She  never  thinks,  or  deems  the  thought  is  vain, 
Her  darling  boy  may  not  come  home  again, 
And  waits  as  calm  and  undisturbed  as  though 
He'd  only  stepped  within  a  room  below. 

But  the  bell  rings,  and  through  the  opening  door 
The  tidings  come,  her  darling  is  no  more ; 
And  tramping  feet  just  on  the  threshold  bring 
Her  poor  dead  boy,  a  cold  and  lifeless  thing. 

Calm  as  a  statue  stands  the  mother  there, 
The  type  of  woe,  the  symbol  of  despair  ; 
She  cannot  yet  take  in  the  tide  of  woe 
Poured  in  her  bosom  by  the  fiendish  foe. 
The  human  heart  has  power  to  feel  and  bear 
Life's  common  ills,  that  meet  us  everywhere ; 
But  when  woe  sends  her  deadliest  and  her  worst, 
The  stoutest  cannot  bear  it  all  at  first, 
And  so  kind  nature  gives  the  human  heart 
Woe  in  instalments,  when  too  keen  the  smart. 
And  as  the  eye,  first  opening  in  the  gloom, 
Expands  ere  seeing  what  is  in  the  room, 
So  the  heart,  staggering  at  a  sudden  blow, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  c9 

Feels  not  at  first  the  full,  full  tide  of  woe  ; 
The  little  wavelets  first  the  rush  begin, 
Until  at  last  the  mighty  flood  comes  in. 

Dead  ?  he's  but  sleeping,  —  O  !  how  calm  and  still  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !  that  forehead,  —  O  !  how  pale  and  chill ! 

Dead  ?  God  of  mercy,  —  that  my  boy  should  die, 

And  no  one  near  him,  no  kind  watcher  by, 

Not  even  I,  to  bathe  his  aching  head, 

To  smooth  his  pillow  and  arrange  his  bed, 

To  watch,  and  wait,  and  soothe,  and  aid,  and  cheer, 

And  let  him  feel  a  tender  mother  near, 

And  let  him  see,  if  the  poor  boy  must  die, 

The  tear  of  sorrow  from  a  mother's  eye, 

And  at  the  last,  when  all  is  done,  do  this  : 

Embrace  my  boy  and  give  the  parting  kiss. 

O  !  then,  methinks,  I  could  have  borne  with  joy 

The  loss,  though  bitter,  of  my  darling  boy. 

"  Tell  mother"  —  what?  'tis  hard  he  could  not  tell. 
Perhaps,  I  love  you,  or  perhaps,  farewell ; 
Perhaps,  I  thank  you  for  your  love  and  care ; 
Perhaps,  I  hope,  or,  God  forbid,  despair. 
Whate'er  it  was,  dear  little  fellow,  I 
Shall  know  it  all  and  hear  it  by  and  by. 

And  thus  that  mother  thinks  it  o'er  and  o'er, 


40  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  daily  sees  and  feels  it  more  and  more, 
Until  at  length  the  full,  the  boundless  whole 
Thrills  every  living  fibre  of  the  soul. 
Then  will  that  sorrow  be  her  daily  care 
Till  'tis  a  burden  she  will  love  to  bear ; 
And  should  you  wipe  it  off  from  memory's  leaf 
'Twould  be  no  solace,  but  a  source  of  grief: 
The  merchant  long  a  crushing  burden  bears 
Till  'tis  his  life  to  battle  with  his  cares  ; 
Let  him  retire  with  fortune's  highest  prize, 
And  ten  to  one  he's  wretched  or  he  dies. 

Then  let  her  weep,  and  let  her  ne'er  forget, 
Nor  cease  to  feel  till  life's  last  sun  shall  set ; 
'Twill  do  her  good  to  mourn  her  buried  boy, 
'Twill  lighten  sorrow  and  'twill  chasten  joy ; 
And  when  death  comes,  faith  will,  with  cloudless  eye, 
See  the  lost  boy,  and  make  it  sweet  to  die. 

When  the  grim  Monster  deals  the  deadly  blow, 
And  lays  the  victim  in  life's  heyday  low, 
When  new  ties  daily  fasten  heart  to  heart, 
Without  one  dream  that  they  may  have  to  part, 
'Tis  then  that  parting  seems  a  bitterer  thing, 
And  death's  keen  sting  becomes  a  keener  sting, 
And  bleeding  sorrow  with  full  many  a  sigh 
Thinks  'tis  so  strange  its  little  one  should  die. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  41 


NO    STRANGER    THAT    THE    YOUNG   DIE   THAN    THE    OLD. 

MOST  of  earth's  graves  are  very  little  ones, 
And  short  the  stories  chiselled  on  the  stones, 
And  if  'tis  strange  when  death  inflicts  the  blow 
That  lays  the  tender  and  the  youthful  low, 
Is  it  not  strange  when  death's  keen  dart  is  sped, 
And  useful  age  lies  numbered  with  the  dead  ? 


THE    OLD    SAGE. 

I  KNOW  a  sage,  almost  a  century  old, 
Whose  name  is  with  earth's  noble  names  enrolled. 
At  fourscore  years,  when  life  has  fewer  joys, 
His  heart  was  young  and  buoyant  as  a  boy's  ; 
His  mind,  more  full  of  life's  and  learning's  lore, 

1  o  ' 

Was  ne'er  so  vigorous  and  so  strong  before  ; 

A  heartier  champion  or  a  doughtier  knight 

Ne'er  toiled  or  fought  for  justice,  truth,  and  right ; 

And  eloquence  —  O  !  'twas  a  feast  to  sit 

And  list  the  outbursts  of  his  polished  wit. 

At  seventy-five  he  saw,  from  all  concealed, 

The  spot  where  fortune  had  a  golden  field; 

And  to  the  city,  in  whose  curule  chair 

He  was  oft  called  to  sit  and  act  as  mayor, 


42  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Threw  off  the  veil,  showed  where  the  treasures  were, 
And  begged  her  guardians  get  the  gems  for  her; 
But  they,  more  wise,  chose  rather  to  refuse, 
And  said  "  fantastic  "  of  the  old  man's  views. 
Well,  said  the  sage,  helped  by  a  hand  divine, 
I'll  take  the  field,  and  make  the  treasure  mine. 
The  field  was  his,  and  with  the  riches  there, 
Within  five  years  he  was  a  millionnaire. 
Now  had  he  died  at  the  full  age  of  men, 
At  threescore  years  or  threescore  years  and  ten, 
No  one  had  thought  'twould  heaven's  pure  plan  de 
range, 

Or  called  his  death  mysterious,   wrong,  or  strange  ; 
Yet  that  old  man  has,  since  that 'moment,  won 
What  very  few  through  longest  lives  have  done. 

If  it  seem  strange  life's  morning  sun  should  set 

While  but  just  rising  in  the  orient  yet, 

And  the  young  pilgrim  find  his  race  is  run 

Before  one  act  of  .earnest  work  is  done, 

'Tis  just  as  strange  that  death  should  strike  the  blow 

Before  one  does  the  whole  he  can  below, 

And  stranger  yet  one  lingers  on  the  shore, 

When  so  near  nothing  he  can  do  no  more, 

And  perhaps  strangest,  God  not  always  gives 

Power  to  act  even  while  the  creature  lives. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  43 


THE    AGED    DIVINE. 

THERE  is  a  man  who  has,  a  giant,  stood 

Almost  a  century  'mong  the  wise  and  good, 

Who,  to  old  age,  with  all  the  fire  of  youth, 

Was  the  wise  teacher  of  the  purest  truth ; 

Men  flocked  to  listen  where  his  logic  rung, 

And  caught  the  accents  dropping  from  his  tongue  ; 

His  thoughts  ne'er  varied  in  their  shape  and  hue, 

To  stand  in  harmony  with  the  current  view  ; 

He  did  his  thinking,  uttered  what  he  thought, 

And  acted  always  in  the  way  he  taught ; 

Who's  still  erect  as  when  a  buoyant  youth 

Or  stalwart  man  he  hurled  the  bolts  of  truth, 

But  whose  mind  now,  once  vigorous,  keen,  and  clear, 

Too  weak  to  grapple  with  a  child's  idea, 

And  that  fine  form  in  which  whilom  was  shrined 

The  grand  machinery  of  a  noble  mind, 

Seems  like  a  casket  of  the  purest  gold 

Robbed  of  the  jewels  that  it  used  to  hold. 

Strange,  the  mind's  powers  should  hasten  to  decay, 

And  leave  the  body  all  in  vigorous  play  ; 

Or  body  linger  year  by  year  behind, 

In  disobedience  to  its  master-mind. 

We  think  it  strange  that  men  so  often  should 


44:  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Live  till  too  helpless  to  do  any  good, 

But  far  more  strange  that  millions  can  be  found 

Who  all  through  life  are  cumberers  of  the  ground. 

It  seems  mysterious  that  the  noblest  here 
Oft  drop  while  marching  in  their  full  career; 
But  history's  leaves  are  filled  with  marvels  o'er, 
That  untold  thousands  did  not  die  before. 

Had  the  same  ball  that  maimed  an  Arnold  slain, 
Earth  had  not  cursed  him  as  a  worse  than  Cain  ; 
And  had  Burr  died  in  boyhood's  early  bloom, 
One  villain  less  had  found  an  earthly  tomb. 


GALLERY    AT    THE    VATICAN.  i 

WITHIN  one  gallery  at  imperial  Rome, 
Where  Art,  long  buried,  finds  at  last  a  home, 
There  is  one  bust  that,  as  he's  passing  by, 
Is  pretty  sure  to  catch  the  traveller's  eye  ; 
Its  plump,  fair  face,  and  gentle,  modest  mien, 
And  genial  air,  so  peaceful  and  serene, 
All  furnish  proof  without  the  least  alloy, 
'Twas  of  a  lovely  and  enchanting  boy, 
One  whom  a  mother  might  be  proud  to  choose, 
And   whom    'twould    break    her  heart'  of  hearts   to 
lose. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  45 

In  that  same  gallery,  farther  on,  is  seen, 
A  marble  demon,  both  in  form  and  mien  ; 
The  gross  and  vulgar  in  each  feature  twine, 
The  fierce  and  cruel  live  in  every  line  ; 
And  then  you  feel  no  marvel  in  the  ease, 
When  you  read  Nero  chiselled  on  the  base. 
But  turn  again,  and  a  few  steps  retrace, 
And  gaze  once  more  upon  that  cherub's  face. 
O  !  what  a  contrast,  so  surpassing  fair, 
An  angel  here,  a  very  demon  there. 
Who  is  that  cherub  ?     Look  and  read  and  know 
That  vile  name  Nero's  chiselled  down  below. 
Great  Jove  !  why  was  that  little  angel  screened 
From  thy  red  bolts  to  grow  a  heartless  fiend  ? 
The  blackest  wretch  that  ever  cursed  the  Avorld 
Had  never  cursed  it  had  the  bolt  been  hurled ; 
And  Rome's  heart-tears  in  rivers  would  have  run 
At  the  sad  death  of  Agrippina's  son, 
And  the  sad  mother  shed  affection's  tear 
While  bending  o'er  her  little  Nero's  bier. 
But  the  boy  lived,  the  imperial  purple  wore, 
And  Rome  was  deluged  in  her  children's  gore, 
Until  her  blood,  that  monster  mother's,  run, 
Pierced  by  the  dagger  of  her  fiendish  son. 

Strange  that  God  lets  a  little  cherub  grow 
Till  'tis  a  demon  ripe  for  endless  woe, 


46  OUR    CHARLIE. 

No  less  a  marvel  than  to  hurl  the  dart, 

And  pierce  a  heart  pure  as  our  Charlie's  heart. 


RESCUE    OF    THE    IDIOT    BOY. 

I  KNEW  a  man,  a  good  old  country  'squire, 

An  honest  farmer  and  indulgent  sire  ; 

Among  his  children  patriarch-like  he  moved, 

And  all  the  circle  felt  the  old  man  loved, 

And  'mongst  them  all  it  was  their  chief  employ 

To  care  for  one,  his  little  idiot  boy. 

The  father  felt  that,  with  a  mind  so  dim, 

That  helpless  boy  must  go  for  aid  to  him ; 

And  so  he  watched  him  when  unwell  and  well, 

And  guessed  the  wants  he  had  no  power  to  tell, 

And  so  unbroken  was  the  vigil  kept, 

'Twas  on  his  heart  both  when  lie  waked  and  slept, 

Until  so  yearning  for  his  poor  weak  son, 

Himself  and  boy  became  entirely  one  : 

The  woe  or  joy  that  thrilled  his  throbbing  breast 

Made  the  fond  father's  as  unblest  or  blest, 

And  as  he  walked  along  life's  rugged  road, 

Care  pressed  upon  him  with  a  double  load  ; 

Yet  the  same  blow  that  should,  alas  !  destroy 

One  half  his  cares,  would  crush  one  half  his  joy. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  47 

One  summer  day,  with  heat  and  toil  oppressed, 
He  laid  him  down  as  was  his  wont  to  rest, 
And,  as  he  slept,  his  thoughts  from  habit  run, 
Without  volition,  on  his  helpless  son. 
He  thought  he  saw  him  where  he'd  often  seen, 
Roving  around  and  straying  o'er  the  green  ; 
And  then  he  saw  him  at  the  river's  brink, 
Then  plunging  in,  then  struggling  not  to  sink. 
The  old  man  waked,  and,  with  excitement  wild, 
Rushed  just  in  time  to  save  his  idiot  child  ; 
His  heart  was  full,  and  the  glad  father  wept 
For  joy,   that  God  had  watched  him  while  he  slept. 

Then  the  world  said,  O  !  strangest  of  events  ! 

Untoward  chance,  mysterious  Providence  ! 

Thus  to  detain  a  guiltless  idiot  boy, 

Where  there's  for  him  not  one  sweet  thrill  of  joy  ; 

A  deathless  spirit  to  detain  below, 

And  where  it  never  could  expand  and  grow, 

And  where  its  wants  ne'er  drink  of  plenty's  bowl, 

Save  through  the  medium  of  another's  soul. 

And  though  that  sire  would  feel  full  many  a  pain, 

He  ne'er  should  see  nor  aid  that  boy  again, 

Reason  and  time  would  heal  the  fleeting  smart, 

And  bring  relief  to  his  o'erburdened  heart ; 

And  wisdom  almost  would  have  sought  in  vain 

The  slightest  cause  to  sorrow  or  complain, 


48  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But  could  have  found  unnumbered  reasons  why 
A  drivelling  idiot,  lingering  here,  should  die. 


THE    MISSIONARY. 

THE  last  command  the  Man  of  Sorrows  gave 
Was,  preach  my  gospel  where  there's  one  to  save ; 
Let  the  glad  tidings  that  I  bring  be  rung 
In  every  land,  by  every  tribe  and  tongue  ; 
Let  the  good  news  be  told  in  eveiy  ear, 
Where  there's  a  sinner  in  the  world  to  hear: 
Do  this,  and  I,  your  Lord  and  God,  will  bless 
And  crown  your  labors  with  complete  success. 
The  time  will  come,  you'll  reap  the  full  reward 
When  all  the  nations  know  and  fear  the  Lord, 
When  peace  shall  reign,  and  concord  knit  all  lands, 
Love  fill  all  hearts,  and  friendship  join  all  hands, 
Earth's  dreary  deserts  shall  be  filled  with  flowers. 
And  white-robed  virtue  rove  among  the  bowers. 

0  glorious  thought !  the  earnest  Christian  said, 
Be  mine  the  bliss  the  glorious  news  to  spread. 

1  have  a  treasure  shrined  within  my  heart, 
Which  grows  more  precious  as  I  spare  a  part; 
A  treasure  which,  as  long  as  I  shall  live, 
The  more  I  give  will  leave  me  more  to  give  ; 
A  heavenly  treasure,  dropped  in  kindness,  which 


OUR    CHARLIE.  49 

Will  make  the  giver  and  receiver  rich, 
And  which  if  spread  will  lift  a  world  like  this 
Up  to  the  realms  of  pure  and  fadeless  bliss. 
Where  is  the  Christian  that  would  hide  the  prize, 
AVitli  this  great  truth  all  blazoned  to  his  eyes  ? 

Go  preach  my  gospel  wheresoe'er  there's  one 
Whom  sin  has  stained,  or  guilt  or  crime  undone  : 
This  great  command  for  twenty  centuries  near 
Has  rolled  its  thunders  into  every  ear, 
And  all  men  heard,  where'er  the  summons  went, 
But  few,  how  few,  felt  what  the  summons  meant ! 
But  now  its  import  flashed  on  every  one, 
Clear  as  the  lightnings  through  mid-ether  run, 
And  one  by  one  the  Christian  bosom  felt, 
And  one  by  one  began  to  warm  and  melt, 
And  one  by  one,  as  each  began  to  see, 
Cried  out  in  triumph,  "  Here  am  I ;  send  me." 
And  many  came,  and  many  a  one  was  sent, 
And  many  a  soldier  to  the  combat  went ; 
Home,  friends,  possessions,  comforts,  country,  all, 
Compared  with  this,  appeared  surpassing  small, 
And  hardship,  suffering,  pain,  and  death,  to  meet, 
Seemed  in  the  pathway  of  obedience  sweet. 
Then  with  the  prayers  and  fond  adieus  of  all, 
He  went,  obedient  to  his  Master's  call, 
Left  home  and  friends,  and  social  charms  and  joys, 

4 


50  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  sweet  refinements,  pleasures,  and  employs, 
And  'neath  the  banner  of  the  cross  unfurled, 
Pluno-ed  in  the  midnight  of  a  heathen  world. 

C*  " 

Not  the  gay  steamer,  that  in  calm  or  blow 
Can  through  the  waves  with  equal  fleetness  go, 
Bears  the  poor  herald  toward  an  eastern  sky, 
Where  he  must  go,  to  toil,  and  droop,  and  die  ; 
Not  the  gay  steamer,  'tis  the  snail-paced  ship, 
Where  he  embarks,  in  which  he  takes  the  trip. 
Wealth  has  its  gold,  to  purchase  at  its  worth 
The  costly  luxury  of  a  steamer's  berth, 
But  the  poor  herald  of  the  cross  must  be, 
For  weary  months,  a  sufferer  on  the  sea, 
And  worn  and  weary,  when  he  comes  to  land, 
No  friend  will  smile  and  give  the  welcome  hand, 
No  well  known  face  he'll  see  on  that  dark  shore, 
Nor  one  fair  object  he  e'er  saw  before. 

The  trip  was  o'er,  the  white-winged  ship,  that  day, 
Rode  out  at  anchor  in  that  Eastern  bay, 
And  the  young  herald,  leaping  on  the  strand, 
Knelt  and  thanked  God  he  saw  the  promised  land. 

A  boat,  a  boat,  behold  the  yellow  rowers  ! 
They're  in  the  boat,  already  at  the  oars. 
Aboard,  aboard,  and  now  they  turn  tne  prow, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  51 

And  row  the  herald  up  the  river  now. 

For  days  and  nights  before  the  boat  will  reach 

The  lonely  jungle,  where  he's  sent  to  preach. 

How  strange  the  scene  !  the  river,  wood$  and  skies, 

All,  all  seem  strangers  to  his  youthful  eyes  ; 

And  home,  sweet  home,  with  all  its  loves  and  joys. 

Its  social  pleasures  and  its  sweet  employs, 

Loved  forms  and  faces  graven  on  his  heart, 

On  memory's  canvas  every  moment  start. 

Life,  all  of  life,  by  mind  and  heart  amassed, 

Sleep  in  the  graveyard  of  the  buried  past ; 

Friends,  home,  and  country,  all  he'd  loved  before, 

These  all  are  objects  he  shall  see  no  more  ; 

And  had  his  Master  not  beside  him  stood, 

And  fed  his  spirit  with  angelic  food, 

The  lonely  youth  had  sought  the  gallant  ship, 

And  taken  passage  for  a  homeward  trip  ; 

But  his  kind  Master  still  was  hovering  near, 

And  whispered  comfort  in  the  herald's  ear. 

And  then  he  prayed,  O  Thou  who  bad'st  me  come 
To  this  dark  land  that  I  must  call  my  home, 
Keep  at  my  side,  my  close  companion  be, 
I  have  no  friend  to  Avhom  to  go  but  Thee  ; 
Help,  for  I'm  powerless,  help,  for  I  am  dumb, 
To  speak  the  errand  upon  which  I  come  ; 
Bi^t  at  Thy  side,  whatever  may  befall, 


52  OUR    CHARLIE. 

I'll  toil  for  Thee,  my  God,  my  friend,  my  all. 
He  rose  refreshed,  and,  brimming  o'er  with  love, 
Cried,  "  Toil  is  here,  but  rest  and  bliss  above ; 
This  is  my  home,  and  'neath  my  Master's  eye 
I'll  toil  and  suffer,  and,  if  need  be,  die." 

The  day  was  bi'ight,  the  sky  was  blue  and  clear, 
Beauty  the  eye,  and  music  charmed  the  ear  ; 
And,  as  they  rowed  him  up  the  sacred  stream, 
Life  seemed  a  mystery,  earth  appeared  a  dream ; 
And  then  he  cried,  glad-hearted  that  he'd  come, 
I  thank  Thee,  Father,  that  I'm  almost  home. 
But  as  he  spoke  God's  tempest,  fierce  and  strong, 
Brought  desolation  in  its  path  along, 
Pagodas  fell  beneath  its  vengeful  wrath, 
And  Indian  homes  lay  scattered  in  its  path, 
And  trees,  like  pipe-stems,  shattered  at  a  blow, 
Flew  through  the  air  like  arrows  from  a  bow, 
And,  like  a  demon,  made  the  bark  a  wreck, 
With  a  dead  herald  lying  on  the  deck. 

Ah  !  stranger  things,  it  may  not  be  denied, 
Full  oft  occur  than  that  our  Charlie  died  ; 
And  the  world  said,  while  pointing  to  his  bier, 
God  frowns  on  missions,  it  is  written  here, 
While  e'en  the  Christian  scarce  could  understand 
How  God  could  thwart  His  own  divine  command. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  53 

Yes,  stranger  things,  it  cannot  be  denied, 
Are  happening  here  than  that  our  Charlie  died  ; 
And  then  we  think,  and  O  !  'it  soothes  our  woe, 
What  now  we  know  not  we  shall  sometime  know  ; 
What  now  seems  dark  will,  in  heaven's  clearer  light, 
Seem  all  in  harmony  with  unspotted  right ; 
And  every  pang  on  earth  that  can  annoy 
Will  end  in  heaven  in  one  sweet  thrill  of  joy. 


THE    YOUNG    HERALD. 

A  CHOSEN  vessel,  —  so  they  used  to  say 

Of  their  young  pastor  every  Sabbath-day ; 

A  pious  heart,  a  highly  cultured  mind, 

And  all  the  graces  of  the  Christian  twined, 

With  all  the  charms  of  polished  rhetoric  strung, 

With  grace  of  person,  eloquence  of  tongue, 

All  these  appeared  in  harmony  to  produce 

A  chosen  vessel  for  the  Master's  use. 

Alas  !  so  young,  yet,  in  his  high  employ, 

He  was  a  man,  and  not  a  whit  a  boy. 

Deep-steeped  in  learning's,  deep  in  heavenly,  lore, 

From  truth's  pure  mine  he  dug  the  purest  ore, 

And,  unalloyed  by  vanity  and  pride, 

He  was  a  safe,  a  most  persuasive  guide. 

Crowds  flocked  to  hear  him,  every  Sabbath-day, 


54  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  ne'er  unfed  the  hearers  went  away ; 

And  willing  converts  to  the  Saviour  flew, 

At  his  entreaty,  thick1  as  drops  of  dew. 

He  sought  not  honors,  sought  not  praise  or  fame, 

For  all  unsought  they  clustered  round  his  name  ; 

And  Christians  called  him,  whatsoe'er  their  views, 

A  chosen  vessel  for  the  Master's  use ; 

And  if  so  young,  so  mighty  he  appears, 

What  will  his  might  be  in  maturer  years  ? 

And  his  own  sect  looked  to  the  youthful  guide 

With  fondest  hope  and,  it  may  be,  with  pride. 

Schisms  had  oft  wrought  havoc  with  that  flock, 

That  oft  had  served  the  wheels  of  truth  to  block  ; 

But  at  his  advent  storm  and  tempest  hushed, 

And  perfect  union  every  discord  crushed, 

And  all  harmonious  flock  and  shepherd  strove, 

To  work  together  in  the  bonds  of  love. 

God  blessed  the  union,  for  He  blessed  the  truth, 

And  blessed  with  man's  the  influence  of  the  youth. 

Not  four  full  months  had,  in  their  lingering  flight, 

To  pass  before  the  new-sown  fields  were  white  ; 

The  plough  and  sickle  both  together  plied, 

The  sower  and  reaper  labored  side  by  side  ; 

It  was  a  scene  o'er  which  the  spirit  bent, 

And  while  faith  prayed,  the  heavenly  blessing  sent. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  55 

'Twas  summer  now,  and  from  the  sweltering  streets 

The  busy  cits  were  seeking  cool  retreats  ; 

Some  down  the  bay,  some  up  the  river  run, 

Some  down  to  Greenwood  from  the  scorching  sun, 

Some  to  the  mountain,  some  to  merry  spas, 

Some  farther  northward  in  the  dusty  cars, 

While  some,  too  busied  for  a  longer  stay, 

Sought  the  cool  beach,   to  pass  the  current  day, 

Where  the  fresh  sea-breeze  its  inspirings  gave, 

And  weary  limbs  might  in  the  waters  lave. 

And  thus  refreshed  the  crowded  city  seek 

For  life's  stern  duties  for  another  week. 

So  the  young  servant  of  his  Master,  too, 

Went,  worn  and  tired,  his  vigor  to  renew, 

Not  to  the  mountain  for  its  bracing  air, 

Not  to  the  Spa,  where  pleasure's  throngs  repair, 

Nor  some  sweet  village  in  some  rural  clime, 

Where  he  at  ease  could  spend  the  summer-time  ; 

He  simply  sailed  across  the  narrow  bay, 

To  pass  a  few  hot  summer  hours  away, 

To  walk  the  beach,  by  the  cool  breezes  fanned, 

Or  watch  the  surges  rushing  on  the  sand, 

Or  plunge  within  and  dash  the  waves  aside, 

And  midst  the  surges  in  gay  triumph  ride. 

The  youthful  pastor  could  the  waters  skim, 
And  'midst    the    waves,    with    graceful    movements, 
swim. 


56  OUR    CHARLIE. 

For  from  his  boyhood  he'd  been  wont  to  lave 
Within  the  flood,  and  skim  the  yeasty  wave. 

And  so  he  went  along  the  beach's  verge, 
And  boldly  plunged  within  the  angry  surge, 
And,  with  an  easy  and  a  graceful  sweep, 
Swam  boldly  out  upon  the  briny  deep  ; 
With  ease  and  grace  he  sailed  as  lightly  there 
As  any  bird  that  flits  athwart  the  air ; 
He  swam  and  floated,  buoyant  as  a  cork,  — 
It  was  all  play,  without  a  bit  of  work  ; 
And  danger  felt  there  was  no  work  for  him 

O 

Where  the  young  pastor  gayly  went  to  swim. 
But,  strange  event,  his  mission  was  all  o'er, 
That  chosen  vessel  never  reached  the  shore  ; 
The  bonds  that  bound  him  to  his  home  and  flock, 
The  ties  of  friendship  sundered  by  the  shock, 
The  seeds  that  hope  expected  him  to  sow, 
The  yellow  harvest  from  the  seed  to  grow, 
All  were  o'erwhelmed  beneath  the  briny  deep, 
Where  the  young  shepherd  laid  him  down  to  sleep. 
Such  hopes  to  blast,  such  plans  to  disarrange, 
The  world  beheld,  and  called  it  "  passing  strange." 
Ah,  yes  !  more  ties,  but  not  more  sweet,  are  rent 
Sometimes  than  those  when  our  dear  Charlie  went. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  57 

THE    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

IF  in  this  world  there  is  a  home,  sweet  home, 
Where  earth's  chill  winter  never  dares  to  come, 
It  is  that  home  that  never,  never  shares 
The  poor  man's  sufferings  or  the  rich  man's  cares, 
Where  harvests  spring  up  from  its  gay  employ, 
And  thrift  converts  them  into  home-felt  joy, 
Where  Agur's  prayer  from  home's  pure  altar  flies, 
And  the  sweet  boon  comes  dropping  from  the  skies. 
'Twas  such  a  home,  one  of  earth's  happiest  ones, 
That  held  within  two  parents  and  two  sons ; 
Love,  virtue,  vigor,  competence,  and  health 
Were  to  that  homestead  all  its  hoarded  wealth, 
And  'twas  enough,  with  all  these  blessings  given, 
That  home  had  many  an  element  of  heaven. 
Their  wants  were  few,  but  all  they  wished  was  theirs, 
Without  the  rich  man's  panics,  fears,  and  cares  ; 
Banks,  railroads,  factories,  prosperous  or  adverse, 
Had  no  effect  on  person,  place,  or  purse, 
And  Wall  or  State  Street  might  be  down  or  up, 
Without  affecting  its  o'erflowing  cup ; 
The  outside  world  might  be  all  noise  and  din 
And  that  sweet  home  be  all  at  peace  within. 

There  is  no  Eden  in  this  world  of  ours, 

But  some  blight's  found  among  the  lovely  flowers, 


58  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  glorious  sun,  with  all  his  golden  rays, 
Has  many  a  spot  upon  his  burnished  face  ; 
And  is  it  strange,  that,  in  that  fairy  ground, 
One  drooping  gem,  one  blasted  bud,  was  found  ? 

They  had  two  sons,  —  one  was  as  bright  a  lad 
As  ever  made  a  loving  parent  glad  ; 
The  other  blasted  in  life's  early  spring, 
Was  a  poor  idiot,  —  was  a  drivelling  thing. 
This  was  the  bud  that  wasted  with  the  blight, 
This  was  the  blot  amidst  the  bower  of  light ; 
But  with  a  love  unmingled  with  alloy, 
The  other  three  clung  to  that  idiot  boy. 
And  as  a  vacuum  must  be  first  supplied 
By  the  freed  air  that's  resting  at  its  side, 
So  the  poor  idiot  always,  from  the  rest, 
Got  the  first  cupful  of  delight  and  best. 
The  blighted  bud  among  the  blooming  flowers 
Was,  it  is  true,  a  blemish  in  the  bowers, 
But  love  all  blazoned  with  a  holier  light 

C3 

Shone  midst  the  scene,  and  blotted  out  the  blight. 
And  that  home,  maybe,  felt  more  genuine  joy 
Because  it  held  that  helpless  idiot  boy. 

The  father  died,  and  let  the  idiot  be,  — 

And  then  men  said,  "  God  help  the  other  three ! ' 

And  the  first  grief-gush  seemed  all  hope  to  sweep, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  59 

And  leave  that  home  no  solace  but  to  weep. 

But  mother's  love,  —  there's  nought  so  strong  below, 

Save  what  she'll  suffer,  what  she'll  dare  to  do. 

Roused  from  the  stupor  that  the  blow  had  given, 
She  bowed  submissive  to  the  stroke  of  Heaven, 
Then  kissed  her  children  both,  her  little  ones, 
And  smiling  sweetly  on  her  little  sons, 
She  said  to  him  and  took  his  tiny  hand, 
Who  only  could  her  meaning  understand,  — 
Your  father's  dead,  from  whom  there  used  to  come 
All  that  made  ours  a  sweet  and  happy  home  ; 
Now  there's  no  arm  this  side  of  the  Divine 
That  we  can  lean  on  but  on  yours  and  mine, 
And  we,  since  Willie's  is  so  weak  and  dim, 
Must  use  our  own  for  both  ourselves  and  him. 

And   so    they    wrought,  —  she    and   her    bright-eyed 

boy,  — . 

And  both  felt  happy  in  their  new  employ. 
And  home  was  happy,  for  the  mother  knew 
If  she  would  try,  that  God  would  help  her  too. 
And  little  George  kept  longing  for  the  day 
When  he  could  aid  by  work  as  well  as  play ; 
And  little  Willie's  shallow  cup  of  bliss 
Was  running  o'er  in  such  a  home  as  this. 
And  they  both  felt  although  home's  sun  was  set, 


60  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Bright  sunlight  streamed  within  their  homestead  yet. 

O  O  t' 

But  God  now  stepped  within  that  home  of  joy, 
And  smote  to  dust  that  little  bright-eyed  boy ; 
The  mother,  awe-struck,  said  "  Thy  will  be  done," 
And  sat  down  calmly  by  her  idiot  son. 

Strange,  said  the  world,  that  God  should  deal  a  blow 

o    7  ' 

That  spared  the  fool  but  laid  the  bright  boy  low  ; 
That  took  the  one  that  could  her  burdens  share, 
And  left  the  one  who'd  be  a  constant  care. 
And  human  reason,  wiser  than  Divine, 
Would  fain  reverse  it,  every  word  and  line ; 
And  human  kindness,  had  it  had  the  rule, 
Had  spared  the  bright  boy  and  recalled  the  fool. 

Ah  !  human  reason,  hast  thou  power  to  look 
And  read  man's  futm'e,   as  we  read  a  book, 
And  trace,  amidst  their  spiritual  employs, 
The  boundless  future  of  those  little  boys  ? 
And  weigh  how  much  an  early  death  or  late 
Gave   shape  and  color  to  their  changeless  fate  ? 
And  how  the  death-blows,  both  the  sire's  and  son's, 
Swayed  the  long  fate  of  those  surviving  ones  ? 
When  thou  canst  read  this  panorama  through, 
And  see  it  plain  as  God  and  angels  do, 
And  feel  each  pulse,  and  see  each  light  and  snade 
Of  future  life,  and  why  and  how  'twas  made, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  Gl 

Then  if  them  seest  among  what  God  has  done 
A  seeming  blemish,  thou  canst  call  it  one, 
Or  aught  inhuman  dropping  from  above, 
Then  say  that  God  is  not  a  God  of  love. 

Our  hearts  are  bleeding  that  our  boy  was  slain, 
But,  thanks  to  God,  we  never  dared  complain, 
It  may  be,  will  be,  if  we  e'er  reach  Heaven, 
And  thence  look  back  to  where  this  blow  was  given, 
We'll  feel  and  know  whatever  grief  it  cost, 
'Twas  just  the  blessing  that  we  needed  most, 
And  it  may  be  the  very  thing  was  this 
That  sealed  our  title  to  unending  bliss. 


THE    RICH    AND    POOR    BOY. 

'TwAS  in  New  York,  where,  mingled  and  combined, 
Are  all  the  grades  of  matter  and  of  mind ; 
Where  shivering  want  in  scantiest  raiment  goes, 
Chill  as  cold  winter  with  its  frosts  and  snows, 
And  muffled  wealth,  arranged  with  taste  and  care, 
Goes  warm  as  if  in  summer's  genial  air ; 
And  every  tint  of  social  state  between 
Is  daily  mingling  in  the  motley  scene  ; 
And  in  that  city  there  is  seen  displayed 
One  panorama  of  each  human  grade. 


62  OUR    CHARLIE. 

One  winter  day,  when  through  the  swarming  street, 
The  shivering  crowds  sped  on  with  hurrying  feet, 
The  cold,  cold  wind,  in  many  an  angry  gust, 
Swept  on  through  Broadway  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
And  great  and  small,  as  the  fierce  whirlwind  passed, 
Turned  round  to  'scape  the  fury  of  the  blast, 
And  muffling  closer,   shielding  face  and  form 
Against  the  fury  of  the  wind  and  storm, 
And  all  New  York,  the  well  and  scanty  clad, 
Said  of  the  day,  —  'twas  very,  very  bad. 

Among  the  crowd  two  little  boys  were  seen 
Of  equal  age,  to  judge  by  size  and  mien  : 
One,  warmly  clad,  went  boldly  on  his  way, 
Nor  seemed  to  feel  that  'twas  a  blustering  day. 
His  splendid  dress  betrayed  a  home  of  wealth, 
His  ruddy  cheeks  betokened  perfect  health ; 
His  pleasant  face  and  genial  manners  quite 
Sufficed  to  prove  him,  although  rich,  polite  ; 
And  though  within  a  home  of  luxury  bred, 
With  not  a  want  unanswered  or  unfed, 
Wise  heads  had  taught  him,  gentle  spirits  fired, 
And  generous  hearts,  his  generous  heart  inspired. 
And  common  sense  had  breathed  within  his  soul, 
And  formed  his  powers  in  one  harmonious  whole. 
The  pride  of  wealth  had  never  thrilled  his  mind : 
His  heart  was  generous,  liberal,  loving,  kind. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  63 

And  want  and  sorrow,  and  disease  and  pain, 
Whene'er  they  asked  him  never  asked  in  vain. 
And  that  sweet  boy,  that  loved  to  aid  and  give, 
Was  just  the  boy  that  one  would  wish  to  live,  — 
One  of  those  sweet  ones  coming  from  above, 
That  all  beholding  watch,  admire,  and  love. 

The  boy  beside  him  was  a  child  of  want,  — 
A  ragged,  thieving,  vicious  mendicant. 
Amidst  old  ruins,  in  a  filthy  den, 
His  home  had  been  with  vile  and  vicious  men, 
Who'd  only  taught  him  that  the  good  and  great 
Were  simply  made  for  him  to  rob  and  hate  ;  — 
And  all  the  wealth  and  splendor,  round  him  strown, 
Belonged  to  him  no  less  than  those  that  own  ; 
And  'twas  his  right,  for  blessings  unpossessed, 
To  beg  a  portion,  and  to  steal  the  rest. 
And  that  poor  boy,  while  yet  so  very  young, 
Lied,   begged,    swore,    stole,    nor    dreamed    of   doing 

wrong, 

For  conscience  ne'er  upon  his  moral  leaf 
Had  put  one  thought  to  check  the  little  thief. 

So  while  he  walked  beside  that  noble  lad, 
Who  loved  to  see  and   make  all  others  glad, 
He,  cold  and  shivering,  'midst  the  dusty  storm, 
And  with  a  whine  that  roo-ues  know  how  to  form. 


G4  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Begged  for  a  trifla  to  procure  a  crumb 
For  his  poor  mother  without  bread  at  home. 
And  the  boy  gave  the  poor  and  shivering  lad, 
Glad  he'd  the  power  to  make  another  glad  ;  — 
Yet  that  young  villain,  though  he  cried  and  whined, 
Had  no  starved  mother,  who  with  hunger  pined ; 
He  took  the  shilling  with  a  thankful  look, 
And  then  adroitly  stole  his  pocket-book  ; 
Then  falling  back  he  mixed  among  the  train, 
To  find  a  chance  to  beg  and  rob  again. 

Just  at  that  instant  passing  near  the  wall 

Of  an  old  building  tottering  to  its  fall, 

A  fiercer  blast  against  the  pile  was  sent, 

And  down  the  building  into  ruin  went. 

Beneath  the  weight  the  passers-by  were  crushed, 

And  all  again  was  into  silence  hushed. 

A  few  were  killed,  the  most  were  mangled  found. 

But  that  young  beggar  came  out  safe  and  sound. 

That  generous  boy  who  just  had  given  relief, 

And  then  been  robbed  by  that  unfeeling  thief, 

Was  walking  on,  wreathed  in  a  genial  smile, 

Out  of  the  reach  of  that  old  crumbling  pile, 

When  lo  !  a  fragment  like  a  leaden  ball, 

Shot  far  ahead  out  of  the  crumbling  wall, 

o 

And  that  sweet  boy,  although  so  far  before, 
Was  struck,  and  there  lay  weltering  in  his  gore. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  65 

Strange,  said  the  world,  that  God  a  blow  should  give, 
That  smote  that  boy,  and  let  the  villain  live, 
E'en  when  the  thief  was  in  the  very  path 
Where  the  fierce  wind-god  swept  along  in  wrath, 
And  that  sweet  boy  had  gone  so  far  alas, 
That  he  seemed  safe  beyond  the  falling  mass. 

How  human  wisdom  in  its  pride  will  seize 

And  criticise  such  casualties  as  these, 

And  prove  how  much  more  natural  to  destroy 

The  little  wretch,  and  spare  the  noble  boy,  — 

And  show  by  proofs  as  plain  as  noonday  light, 

Had  God  reversed  it  'twould  have  been  all  right. 

Like  that  young  thief  had  that  bright  boy  escaped, 

With  such  a  heart  for  virtue  formed  and  shaped, 

No  tongue  can  tell  of  what  surpassing  worth 

His  life  had  been  to  this  revolted  earth, 

And  the  best  instincts  of  the  heart  had  then 

Cried,  in  a  transport  of  delight,   "  Amen  !  " 

And  had  the  thief  been,  like  the  good  boy,  crushed, 

Those  same  good  instincts  had  each  murmur  hushed, 

The  world  had  said  that  God  had  acted  best, 

And  lofty  reason  kindly  acquiesced ; 

For  that  young  rogue,  while  waxing  worse  and  worse, 

Would  have  been  nothing  but  a  social  curse, 

And  to  himself  a  constant  source  of  woe,  — 

Been  through  all  life  his  own  most  deadly  foe. 


66  OUR    CHARLIE. 

When  in  our  streets  we've  seen  those  wretched  ones 

Begging  for  bread  and  half-denuded  bones, 

And  by  feigned  tears  and  simulated  cries, 

Make  them  pass  current,  their  deceit  and  lies, 

Then  thought  how  Charlie,  our  dear,  darling  boy, 

Had  all  he  needed  for  his  cup  of  joy,  — 

Had  food,  and  clothes,  and  all  that  he  required, 

To  be  well  fed  and  tidily  attired, 

And  had  a  home,  if  not  earth's  very  best, 

With  all  but  luxury  furnished  and  possessed, 

Where  those  that  loved  him  clasped  him  to  the  breast, 

And  would  have  died  to  make  their  Charlie  blest ; 

Yet  Charlie  died,  with  all  these  things  to  cheer, 

7  o 

While  thousands  live  without  one  comfort  here  ; 
And  our  poor  hearts  will  sometimes  think  and  sigh, 
Strange  these  should  live  and  our  dear  Charlie  die. 

Was  it  a  weakness  with  presumption  fraught  ? 
No  matter  what,  our  hearts  will  feel  the  thought, 
And  sometimes  forced  by  such  sad  thoughts  to  melt, 
Our  hearts  will  whisper  what  they  sadly  felt, 
Just  as  the  world  could  not  suppress  its  grief 
When  fell  that  good  boy  and  survived  the  thief. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  67 


THE    ARTIST    AND    HIS    IDEAL. 

THERE  was  an  artist,  had  his  humble  home 

Within  the  bosom  of  imperial  Rome  ; 

Midst  her  old  ruins  he  had  daily  walked, 

With  Art's  old  masters  he  had  daily  talked, 

Till,  so  in  love  .with  Nature's  myriad  charms, 

He  threw  himself  within  her  twining  arms, 

And,  like  a  child,  within  her  warm  embrace, 

Watched  every  change  upon  her  lovely  face. 

He'd  seen  her  mirrored  midst  the  crumbling  wrecks 

And  modern  piles  of  earth's  best  architects  ; 

He'd  seen  her  springing  from  the  shapeless  block, 

Riven  from  the  quarries  of  the  Parian  rock ; 

He'd  seen  her  gayly  from  dead  canvas  gush, 

And  live  and  breathe  obedient  to  his  brush, 

And  her  own  scenery  of  all  tints  and  dyes, 

In  the  mild  azure  of  Italian  skies, 

And  all  the  varying  and  bewitching  miens 

She  takes  to  form  her  rich  Italian  scenes. 

But  still  unsated  with  the  luxury  placed 

Among  the  viands  for  his  cultured  taste, 

There  was  one  viand,  one  voluptuous  dish, 

That  ne'er  had  sprung  obedient  to(  his  wish: 

He  longed  to  see,  and  yet  he  knew  not  whence, 

A  perfect  type  of  spotless  innocence, 


68  OUR    CHARLIE. 

For  he'd  not  seen  the  faultless  picture  yet, 
Although  he'd  watched  each  form  and  face  he  met ; 
He'd  seen  the  Pope,  and  tried  in  vain  to  trace 
Its  lineaments  beneath  those  folds  of  lace, 
He'd  seen  the  Cardinals,  clad  in  scarlet,  rolled 
Through  Roman  streets  in  chariots  dressed  in  gold ; 
He'd  seen  the  priests,  old  Rome's  most  common  nouns, 
In  ugly  hats  and  most  ungraceful  gowns, 
And  loathsome  monks,  in  filthiest  garments  clad, 
To  show  the  world  they're  solemn,  sour,  and  sad, 
But  'mong  them  all,  though  sought  with  utmost  care, 
He  did  not  find  the  gem  he  wanted  there. 
He'd  seen  the  nuns  in  all  their  neat  costumes, 
Like  lovely  lilies  in  their  snow-white  blooms ; 
But  howe'er  fair,  the  picture  was  not  fraught 
With  that  sweet  thing,  the  object  that  he  sought ; 
The  beau  ideal  that  he  wished  to  paint 
Was  not  the  child  of  penance  and  constraint ; 
The  innocence  that  he  was  seeking  there  • 
Must  come  from  love  and  be  as  free  as  air, 
Not  merely  known  by  badges  and  costumes, 
But,  like  flowers,  also  by  its  rich  perfumes  ; 
And  badge  and  costume,  howe'er  true,  must  be, 
Like  blossoms,  outbursts  of  the  parent  tree. 

He  dreamed  by  night  and  he  inquired  by  day, 
Where  is  the  jewel  ?     Whither  is  the  way  ? 


OUR    CHARLIE.  69 

He  roved  the  halls  of  science  and  of  art, 

But  did  not  find  the  vision  of  his  heart ; 

He  looked  at  Nature,  —  earth,  and  sea,  and  air,  — 

But  did  not  find  the  bright  creation  there. 

He  roved  beyond  his  usual  rounds  one  day, 

Among  the  tombs  that  skirt  the  Appian  Way, 

And  then  within  the  still  Campagna  roved, 

But  nowhere  found  the  vision  that  he  loved. 

Then  toward  Frascati  bent  his  steps,  until 

He  reached  the  villa  of  the  Alban  Hill, 

And  ere  scarce  conscious,  found  that  he  had  come 

Up  to  the  path  that  leads  to  Tusculum, 

Whence  Cato  sprang,  the  censor  of  old  Rome, 

And  Tulli  wrote  within  his  summer  home. 

He  took  the  path  and  mounted  up  the  hill, 

Along  where  once  was  many  a  Roman  ville, 

Till,  with  an  instinct  that  can  never  err, 

He  stood  at  Tusculuin's  ruined  theatre  ; 

And  there  he  stopped  and  viewed  the  dappled  west 

Just  at  the  hour  red  Phoebus  sunk  to  rest : 

The  broad  Campagna,  by  old  arches  spanned, 

In  endless  lines,  e'en  though  in  ruins  grand; 

And  farther  on  the  ruins  of  old  Rome, 

And  the  huge  grandeur  of  St.  Peter's  dome ; 

And  farther  west  old  Ostia's  shimmering  bay 

In  the  dim  twilight  of  departing  day,  — 


70  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Twas  lovely  all,  but  the  poor  son  of  art 

Found  not  the  idol  shrined  within  the  heart. 

He  turned  to  go,  but  where  he  had  to  pass 

An  angel  lay  upon  a  tuft  of  grass  : 

A  beauteous  boy,  surpassing  sweet  and  fair, 

Had  lost  his  way,  and  thus  lay  sleeping  there  ; 

His  little  hands  were  crossed  upon  his  breast, 

A  fresh -plucked  flower  was  on  his  bosom  pressed, 

And  unseen  angels,  bending  o'er  the  child, 

Were  talking  with  him,  and  the  cherub  smiled. 

Some  little  tear-drops  on  his  sweet  cheeks  lay, 

That  he'd  been  shedding  when  he  lost  his  way, 

And  tears  and  smiles  in  all  their  witchery  wove, 

Like  shower  and  sunshine,  made  a  thing  to  love  ; 

And  still  he  smiled,  for  still  the  angels  talked, 

And  through  the  bowers  of  Paradise  they  walked  ; 

And  his  lips  moved,  for  round  among  the  flowers 

He  walked  and  talked  with  angels  in  their  bowers ; 

And  fear  and  care  bade  not  a  ripple  roll 

Across  the  peaceful  current  of  the  soul,  — 

And  like  a  being  newly  winged  above, 

Where  each  pulsation  is  a  throb  of  love, 

The  sweet  young  spirit  of  that  gentle  boy 

Was  a  pure  gem  of  peace  and  love  and  joy  ; 

So  gazed  the  artist,  for  the  beau  ideal 

Of  his  chaste  fancy  had  become  the  real ; 

For  innocence,  he'd  sought  with  sleepless  care, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  71 

But  never  found,  true  to  his  dreams,  was  there  ; 

And  so  he  gazed,  until  the  charming  whole 

Daguerreotyped  his  image  on  the  soul ; 

And  when  again  before  his  easel  placed, 

Out  of  his  soul  he  drew  the  thing  he  traced, 

Till  on  the  canvas  he  beheld,  with  joy, 

The  mirrored  image  of  that  little  boy, 

The  pure  quintessence,  not  obscure   and  dim, 

Of  innocence's  perfect  synonyme. 

"Eureka!"  cried  he,  "for  the  victory's  mine," 

And  hung  it  up  within  his  studio's  shrine. 

Long  years  had  passed,  and  Innocence  still  hung 
Within  his  home,  extolled  by  every  tongue, 
And  his  own  heart  had  daily  feasts  of  joy, 
Oft  as  he  gazed  upon  that  little  boy ; 
But  from  the  hour  his  magic  pencil  run 
O'er  the  last  line,  and  left  the  picture  done, 
His  soul  had  yearned,  with  all  an  artist's  pride, 
To  see  Guilt's  picture  hanging  at  its  side, 
And  he  had  roved  by  land  and  sea  to  find 
The  beau  ideal  cherished  in  his  mind ; 
And  though  he'd  found  in  many  a  face  he'd  seen 
Some  lineaments  that  mark  the  monster's  mien, 
And  although  some  seemed  demons  black  as  night, 
The  blackest  had  some  little  gleams  of  light, 
And  'twas,  in  fancy  only,  he  had  built 
The  loathsome  fabric  of  unbroken  guilt. 


72  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Twas  at  a  time  when  Nature's  lovers  stroll, 

For  feasts  of  reason  and  for  flows  of  soul, 

The  artist  left  his  studio  and  his  care, 

And  walked  abroad,  it  scarcely  mattered  where, 

Till,  having  reached  the  Duke  Colonna's  lands, 

He  found  himself  where  Paliano  stands. 

The  dark  old  prison,  the  lion  of  the  town, 

Appeared  to  wear  a  more  demoniac  frown, 

And  guilt's  dread  children,  from  their  gloomy  cells, 

Sent  fiercely  out  their  curses,  shrieks,  and  yells, 

And  to  fill  full  the  harmony  of  their  strains, 

The  clash  of  fetters  and  the  clank  of  chains. 

And  soon  he  passed  through  the  unbolted  door, 

The  scenes  within  to  study  and  explore  ; 

From  cell  to  cell  he  passed  along,  and  leaned 

'Gainst  grated  doors  to  see  each  prisoned  fiend, 

And  his  brain  reeled  as  he  beheld  the  trace 

Of  blackest  guilt  on  every  fiendish  face ; 

Yet  every  one,  howe'er  of  good  bereft, 

Had  some  slight  trace  of  human  nature  left, 

Some  little  marks  that  faintly  seemed  to  tell, 

'Twas  not  a  demon,  nor  his  prison  a  hell. 

But  there  was  one,  whose  cell  was  farther  on, 
From  whom  all  human  seemed  forever  gone  ; 
The  bloodshot  eye,  fierce  brow,  and  matted  hair, 
Told  but  too  plainly  'twas  a  demon  there, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  73 

Not  one  pale  beam  or  faintest  tint  of  light 
Shot  through  the  darkness  of  his  moral  night, 
But  all  was  dark,  and  midnight  round  about 
Had  seemed  to  blot  each  trace  of  manhood  out. 

The  artist  viewed  him  with  an  earnest  eye, 
And  scanned  this  demon  of  the  darkest  dye, 
And  shuddering  cried,  Whate'er  the  creature  be, 
'Tis  just  the  monster  that  I've  longed  to  see. 

Few  were  the  suns  that  ran  their  daily  round, 
Before  the  monster  on  the  canvas  frowned, 
And  then  he  saw,  with  all  an  artist's  pride, 
The  fiend  and  cherub  hanging  side  by  side, 
The  perfect  types,  in  contrast  so  immense, 
Of  blackest  guilt  and  brightest  innocence, 
Where  good  and  bad  had  left  their  typic  trace, 
To  deck  and  mar  the  human  form  and  face. 

And  then  he'd  daily  look  and  study  each, 
And  learn  the  lesson  they  were  meant  to  teach. 
Can  such  a  cherub  —  no,  he  never  can  — 
Become  a  creature  like  that  monster  man  ? 
Or  such  a  monster,  when  his  race  begun, 
Have  ever  been  that  little  cherub  one  ? 
And  yet  that  monster  was  a  boy  whilom, 
And  he  had  parents  and  a  pleasant  home, 


74  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  those  fond  parents  loved  their  cherub  boy, 
And  that  sweet  home  he  filled  with  light  and  joy, 
And  love,  blind  love,  predicted  that  his  name 
Would  one  day  shine  upon  the  scroll  of  fame. 
He  might  have  seemed  in  childhood's  earliest  spring 
An  innocent  and  very  charming  thing  ; 
But  had  he  then  for  his  young  portrait  sat, 
It  could  not  sure  have  been  a  thing  like  that. 

Mistaken  artist,  will  it  mar  thy  joy 
To  know  that  monster  Avas  that  cherub  boy  ? 
And  that  the  cherub,  so  angelic  miened, 
Became  in  manhood  such  a  hideous  fiend  ? 
But  so  it  is,  —  that  boy,  who  first  begun 
So  fair,  so  sweet,  became  that  fiendish  one. 

God  help  our  children,  if  tlie  dear  ones  can 
Become  as  loathsome  as  that  hideous  man, 
And  God  help  us,  if  culture  or  neglect 
Can    make    them   wrecks,    as    that    sweet    boy    was 
wrecked. 

We  think  of  this,  —  and  if  it  does  not  cheer, 

It  seems  to  dry  up  many  and  many  a  tear ; 

For  though  our  Charlie  surely  never  could 

Have  been  aught  else  than  sweet  and  kind  and  good, 

Much  less  as  hideous  and  deformed  become 


OUR    CHARLIE.  » 

As  that  sweet  boy  that  slept  at  Tusculum, 
'Twas  sweet  to  think  that  ere  with  cunning  art 
Guilt  dropped  a  stain  upon  his  spotless  heart, 
The  Saviour  came,  and  with  a  look  of  love, 
Bore  him  in  triumph  to  his  home  above, 
Where  not  a  stain  can  ever  touch  our  boy, 
And  not  a  sorrow  ever  mar  his  joy. 

O  !  Charlie,  Charlie,  though  our  bosoms  bleed, 
We  love  to  think  that  thou  art  blest  indeed, 
And  that  although  we're  sundered  now  in  twain, 
We  soon  shall  meet  our  beauteous  child  again  ; 
Meet,  not  as  now,  to   spend  a  few  fleet  years, 
And  part  in  sorrow,  groans,  and  sighs,  and  tears, 
But  meet  and  sweetly  mingle  heart  with  heart, 
Live,  learn,  and  love,  and  never,  never  part ; 
And  then  it  sometimes  gives  us  sweet  relief 
To  think  life  here  is  so  exceeding  brief; 
And  hope's  pulsations  beat  more  full  and  strong, 
To  think  hereafter  life  will  be  so  long. 


DEATH    SELDOM    COMES    AT    THE    RIGHT    TIME. 

How  seldom  'tis,  in  any  age  or  clime, 
Death  claims  his  victims  at  the  proper  time. 
Whate'er  man  is,  whate'er  he  might  have  been, 


76  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Too  soon  or  late  Death  thrusts  his  sickle  in ; 

While  on  the  road  to  honor  and  renown, 

Death  often  comes  and  strikes  the  victim  down, 

Just  freed  from  care,  with  boundless  wealth  in  store, 

The  arrow  flies,  and  it  is  his  no  more. 

The  warm-souled  herald  to  the  rescue  flies, 

When  sorrow  shrieks  and  trembling  ignorance  cries, 

But  in  mid  passage  or  but  just  ashore, 

Expires  or  founders,  and  his  mission's  o'er ; 

The  hale  old  man  scarce  reaching  to  decline, 

Receives  his  summons  when  at  ninety-nine, 

And  thinks  'tis  hard,  unfeeling,  and  severe, 

God  did  not  spare  him  to  live  out  the  year. 


THE    SAILOR. 

I  KNEW  him  well,  a  rover  of  the  sea, 
A  braver  tar  you  never  saw  than  he, 
At  first  a  sailor,  then  in  many  a  trip, 
The  gallant  captain  of  a  gallant  ship  ; 
Tears  wet  all  faces  when  he  went  to  roam, 
And  tears  of  joy  whenever  he  came  home. 

A  sparkling  girl,  who,  in  our  social  joys, 

Was  warmth  and  sunshine  to  the  girls  and  boys, 

Smiled  on  the  sailor  from  the  very  start, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  77 

And  sweetly  gave  him  all  he  wished,  —  her  heart ; 
And  soon  in  gladness  friends  and  kindred  met 
To  see  them  tangled  in  the  silken  net ; 
And  ne'er  were  seen  a  bridegroom  and  a  bride 
More  full  of  joy  than  Ben  and  Zealide. 

They  lived  and  loved,  united  heart  and  heart, 
Both  when  together  and  when  far  apart, 
The  bond  of  love  from  that  domestic  hearth 
Oft  stretched  unbroken  all  around  the  earth. 
Like  olive  plants  their  little  prattlers  sprung, 
And  sweetest  perfumes  o'er  the  homestead  flung; 
And  each  new  cherub  given  them  from  above, 
Gave  added  potence  to  the  bond  of  love. 

When  the  fierce  wind-god  swept  along  in  wrath, 
And  carried  death  and  havoc  in  his  path, 
How  their  hearts  chilled  to  think  that  storm  might  be 
Sweeping  in  anger  o'er  the  troubled  sea,       '. 
And  he  they  loved,  o'ertaken  in  his  way, 
Might  be  that  moment  in  the  deadly  fray  ; 
And  how  joy  kindled  in  their  bosoms  when 
Word  came,  "  all  safe,"  the  vessel  and  the  men ! 
And  how  sweet  home  run  over  with  delight 
At  the  glad  tidings  of  "  a  sail  in  sight  !  " 
And  love  grew  lovelier  when  it  looked  to  see 
That  manly  form,  and  hear  the  word  "  'Tis  he." 


78  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Then  came  the  presents,  beauteous,  rich,  and  rare, 
Things  to  display  and  eat  and  drink  and  wear; 
And  more  than  these,  those  things  that  unpossessed, 
Prevent  e'en  love  from  making  households  blest. 

Three  years  had  passed  since,  with  hrs  sails  unfurled, 
He  had  been  cruising  round  and  round  the  world  ; 
And  love  was  watching  every  hour  at  home 
To  see  the  lover  and  the  father  come. 

At  length  it  came,  —  the  tidings  came  one  day, 
The  gallant  ship  was  coming  up  the  Bay, 
And  o'er  the  Sound  the  steamer  gliding  hence 
Bore  the  glad  tidings  on  to  Providence. 

Home  was  astir,  —  all  wore  a  merry  air ; 
For  in  two  days  the  rover  would  be  there ; 
How  oft  they  wished,  and  said  it  with  a  smile, 
That  Providence  were  on  Manhattan  Isle  ! 
Then  when  the  vessel  into  port  had  come, 
The  gallant  captain  would  have  been  at  home ; 
But  ah  !  two  days  !  —  it  seemed  an  age  before 
They  should  behold  his  pleasant  face  once  more. 

But  time  does  fly,  though  snail-like  to  the  mind, 
That  flies  so  swift  it  leaves  old  Time  behind  ; 
Hope  will,  so  swiftly,  towards  the  guerdon  go, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  79 

It  chides  the  hours  and  calls  them  very  slow  ; 

And  when  we  sit  at  pleasure's  sweet  repast, 

We  chide  old  Time,  and  think  he  moves  too  fast. 

Between  the  murderer  and  the  fatal  day 

Days  are  but  moments,  but  an  inch  of  way  ; 

But  placed  between  the  lover  and  his  home, 

It  seems  long  ages  in  the  time  to  come. 

But  time  will  move,  —  the  captain,  with  his  freight, 

Leaped  on  the  steamer,  buoyant  and  elate  ; 

And  then  he  said,  while  looking  round  and  round, 

"  Why  was  Long  Island  made  so  long  a  Sound  ? 

Twelve,  fourteen  hours,  it  may  be  many  more, 

Ere  I  shall  land  on  dear  Rhode  Island's  shore ; 

Still  'tis  no  matter,  —  I'll  my  state-room  keep, 

And  spend  the  moments  in  unconscious  sleep, 

Then,  though  'tis  long  ere  those  dear  ones  I  see, 

'Twill  be  a  moment,  only  that,  to  me." 

He  slept  and  dreamed,  —  arrayed  in  all  her  charms, 
His  wife  had  rushed  within  his  circling  arms, 
The  children  gabbled  like  so  many  geese, 
And  kissed  and  kissed  him  twenty  times  apiece, 
And  he  and  they  kept  wondering  o'er  and  o'er 
Why  'twas  each  other  had  not  altered  more  ; 
Then  came  the  presents,  brilliant,  rich,  and  rare, 
Designed  for  each,  and  sought  with  nicest  care  ; 
And  last  the  treasures  after  which  he'd  roved 


80  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  earned,  to  bless  the  little  ones  he  loved. 

"  Enough,"  said  he,  "  I've  gained  enough  and  more1, 

I'll  stay  henceforth  with  those  I  love  on  shore  ; 

Farewell  old  ocean,  with  thy  restless  main, 

I  ne'er  shall  battle  with  your  waves  again ; 

Howl,  howl,  mad  tempest,  lash  the  waves  and  roar, 

You'll  no  more  harm  me,  high  and  dry  ashore  ; 

Ye  winds  blow,  blow,  snap  off  the  shrouds  and  spars, 

Toss  up  the  billows  till  they  quench  the  stars,  — 

'Tis  nought  to  me,  I  care  not  for  your  strife, 

I'm  with  my  children,  living  with  my  wife, 

I've  now  enough  for  life's  entire  supply, 

'Tis  all  I  wish  for  tilji  the  day  I  die." 

Fire  !    fire  !     He    wakes,  —  the    flames    are    flashing 

O 

high, 

And  the  red  tempest  lights  the  ebon  sky; 
Groans,  cries,  and  tears,  from  terror  and  affright, 
Fill  the  grand  chorus  of  that  awful  night ; 
And  ere  the  echo  of  that  chorus  died, 
Ship,  cargo,  all  lay  silent  'neath  the  tide  ; 
Some,  for  a  moment,  struggled  with  the  wave, 
But  baffled  sunk  to  their  unhonored  grave. 
The  home-bound  captain,  with  the  wealth  he'd  won, 
Slept  midst  the  ashes  of  the  Lexington. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  81 

But  at  his  home,  nor  sleep  nor  dreams  had  they, 
They  all  sat  watching  for  the  break  of  day ; 
Aurora  first  sent  up  her  saffron  streams, 
Red  Phoebus  followed  with  his  ruddy  beams  ; 
Hour  after  hour  of  broad  and  open  day, 
In  quick  succession  came  and  went  away, 
Till  the  bright  daylight  into  twilight  grew, 
And  night  threw  o'er  her  dome  of  stars  and  blue, 
When  tidings  came,  first  whispered  faintly  round, 
The  ship  is  lost  and  all  on  board  are  drowned. 
Next  came  the  news :  the  ship  is  tempest  tossed, 
Burned  and  disabled,  but  not  wholly  lost; 
Now  good,  now  bad,  the  flying  rumors  came,  — 
First,  she  was  safe,  then,  perished  in  the  flame, 
Till  the  dread  message  proved,  alas  !  too  true,  — 
The  ship  was  lost,  and  all  were  drowned  but  two. 
But  two  ?  the  names  !     O  no  !  the  deed  is  done, 
But  two  are  saved,  but  he,  alas  !  not  one  ; 
Bat  still  hope  flickered,  and  could  not  go  out, 
Till  time  passed  on  and  brushed  away  the  doubt. 

Ah,  human  wisdom,  how  much  more  divine 
Thou  wouldst  have  done  it,  had  the  work  been  thine  ! 
For  three  long  years  he'd  suffered,  toiled,  and  roved. 
To  bless  the  group  that  he  so  dearly  loved, 
And  thou  wouldst  sure  have  wafted  safe  along 
Him  and  his  treasures  to  the  little  throng. 
6 


82  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Yes,  human  reason  sees  with  half  an  eye, 
'Twas  not  the  time  for  such  an  one  to  die. 

Ah!  noble  reasoner,  should  the  bolt  have  come, 
While  he  was  feeling  the  first  thrill  of  home  ? 
If  not,  tell  when  the  arrow  should  have  sped, 
Wise  seer,  who  canst  not  see  an  inch  ahead. 


THE    INVENTOR. 

A  FEW  years  since,  within  a  country  ville, 
There  lived  a  youth  of  splendid  taste  and  skill. 
'Twas  his  delight,  absorbed  in  thought  profound, 
To  rove  invention's  yet  untrodden  ground ; 
He  loved  to  pierce  the  pall  of  moral  night, 
And  by  his  fiat  bring  out  rays  of  light ; 
He  loved  to  soar  on  thought's  far-spreading  wing, 
And  out  of  chaos,  perfect  order  bring, 
And  of  rude  matter,  at  his  plastic  will, 
Bring  out  creations  of  consummate  skill ; 
He- loved  to  watch  the  great  world's  ceaseless  buzz, 
And  all  the  phases  of  the  work  it  does, 
Then,  from  the  mysteries  that  in  matter  lurk, 
Bring  out  the  witcheries  that  can  do  the  work  ; 
He  sometimes  dreamed  of  that  millennial  day 
When,  matter  working,  men  should  only  play. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  83 

His  was  a  soul  whose  living  cords  were  found 
In  harmony  always  with  the  charms  of  sound ; 
The  soft  piano,  touched  with  well-trained  art, 
Thrilled  every  fibre  of  his  tuneful  heart, 
<And  music's  spirit  floated  on  the  breeze, 
When  his  light  finger  touched  the  ivory  keys ; 
But  oft  he  thought,  when  playing  Zion's  lays, 
Where  social  groups  sang  to  their  Maker's  praise, 
How  sweet  'twould  be  if,  like  the  organ's  tones, 
His  own  piano's  could  be  lengthened  ones, 
Then  like  an  organ  in  our  social  throngs 
He  could  play  sweetly  Zion's  sacred  songs ; 
Can  some  device  be  conjured  into  view, 
So  that  pianos  can  be  organs  too  ? 
Some  novel  charm  or  new  contrivance  found, 
So  .that  each  key  shall  give  a  lengthened  sound  ? 

He  sought  — ^  he  found  ;  the  youthful  songster  spoke, 
And  out  of  chaos  all  he  wanted  woke. 
The  world  beholding  in  amazement  stood, 
And,  smiling,  called  the  new  creation  "  good  ; " 
Wealth  flowed  in  streams,  Pactolus-like,  and  brought 
A  golden  harvest  for  the  achievement  wrought ; 
.  Fame,  soon  as  Science  had  his  praises  said, 

Wove  laurelled  wreaths  for  his  unlaurelled  head, 
.    And  Science,  smiling,  placed  his  humble  name 
Among  earth's  honored  on  the  scroll  of  fame  ; 


84  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Till  making  rich  the  ones  he  loved  at  home, 
He  turned  his  steps  in  foreign  climes  to  roam, 
For  fame  stood  beckoning  on  the  Old  World's  shore, 
And  fortune,  smiling,  asked  him  to  come  o'er. 
He  went,  saw,  conquered.     Lords  and  ladies  smPed, 
And  lavished  praise  on  fortune's  foster-child, 
Earls  came  to  see  him,  dukes  to  hear  him  play, 
And  prince  and  princess  their  respects  to  pay, 
And  taste  and  learning  hung  with  thrills  of  joy 
Upon  the  music  of  that  Yankee  boy, 
And  England's  queen,  within  her  palace  walls, 
Bade  him  with  music  charm  her  royal  halls. 
Where'er  he  went,  with  unassuming  air, 
He  was  the  observed  of  all  observers  there, 
And  public  papers  set  the  tidings  down, 
When  the  young  charmer  chanced  to  come  to  town  ; 
And  if  gross  flattery  could  have  spoiled  that  one, 
That  youthful  rover  would  have  been  undone. 
Thus  honored,  praised  and  feted  and  caressed, 
With  new  wealth  added  to  the  wealth  possessed, 
Yet  unseduced  by  flattery's  siren  smile, 
And  unenchained  to  England's  queenly  isle, 
With  thoughts  of  home  still  thrilling  in  his  breast, 
On  wings  of  love  he  hastened  to  the  west, 
Where  home  stood  brimming  with  bewitching  charms. 
Sweet  smiles,  warm   hearts,  kind  cheers,  and   open 
arms, 


OUR     CHARLIE.  85 

Where,  on  the  fortune  God  had  deigned  to  give, 
He  and  his  loved  ones  could  delighted  live. 

How  sweet  to  think  that  merit  can  enjoy 
The  rich  full  harvest  of  its  own  employ ; 
That  modest  merit,  when  the  deed  is  done, 
Can  wear  the  laurels  it  has  fairly  won  ; 
That  genius,  poor,  unfriended,  and  alone, 
Can  sometimes  reap  the  harvest  it  has  sown, 
And  genuine  worth,  by  its  own  powers  of  mind, 
Grow  sometimes  rich  and  still  is  good  and  kind. 

So  felt  his  country  when  her  son,  once  more, 

Planted  his  foot  upon  his  native  shore, 

And    all    hearts    wished   him,    with    his    well-earned 

wealth, 
A  long,  long  life  of  happiness  and  health. 

He  reached  his  home  unspoiled  by  flattery's  arts, 
And  there  he  met  with  open  doors  and  hearts ; 
Hope  bade  him  welcome  to  its  feasts  of  joy, 
And  fortune  smiled  upon  her  favorite  boy, 
And  reason  kindly  called  it  right  and  wise, 
That  he  that  earned  it  should  enjoy  the  prize, 
And  common  sense  declared  'twas  very  plain 
That  one  so  worthy  should  enjoy  the  gain, 
And  common  justice  would  indignant  frown, 


86  OUR    CHARLIE. 

To  cut  so  early  conquering  genius  down, 

E'en  at  the  moment  when  his  toils  have  ceased, 

And  he's  scarce  tasted  of  the  well-earned  feast. 

Ah  !  human  Reason,  prophet,  judge,  and  guide, 

In  one  short  week  that  son  of  genius  died, 

And  that  sweet  home  that  just  his  welcome  said, 

Now  rudely  pushed  him  from  its  portals,  dead ; 

And  the  rich  prize  for  which  he'd  labored  so, 

Dropped  into  hands  that  ne'er  had  struck  a  blow, 

And  Reason  frowned  that  Death  should  throw  his  dart, 

At  such  a  time,  at  such  a  noble  heart, 

And  really  rob  him,  though  but  just  returned, 

Of  that  rich  prize  that  he'd  so  nobly  earned. 

But  human  Reason  and  that  Christian  youth 
Held  different  views  of  justice,  right,  and  truth ; 
For  on  his  bed,  when  told  that  he  must  die, 
He  said,  "  All's  well,  sweet  Paradise  is  nigh ; 
Home,  home,  sweet  home,  O  !  sing  me  now  that  song, 
That  on  its  harmony  I  may  float  along ; 
Home  was  my  dream  where'er  I  went  to  roam, 
And  now,  O !  now,  I'm  really  going  home  ; 
Wealth,  fare  thee  well,  you've  had  no  time  to  get 
Your  reign  established  in  my  bosom  yet, 
I've  wealth  above,  untinctured  with  alloy, 
That  ne'er  will  fade  nor  fail  to  give  me  joy." 


OUR    CHARLIE,  87 

And  so  lie  died,  and  with  faith-lighted  eye, 
He  felt,  he  saw,  'twas  just  his  time  to  die ; 
But  human  Reason  still  persists  to  find, 
'Tis  not  in  harmony  with  the  good  and  kind. 


THE    RIGHT    TIME    TO    DIE. 

WHEN  the  Great  Teacher  meekly  closed  his  eye, 
And  said,  "  'Tis  finished,"  'twas  his  time  to  die. 
His  work  accomplished  and  his  mission  o'er, 
Why  should  he  linger  for  a  moment  more  ? 

v  O 

Heaven's  portals  lifted  for  the  King  to  come, 
And  his  dear  Father  kindly  asked  him  home. 

When  the  ripe  Christian,  full  of  hope  and  love, 
And  whose  heart-treasures  are  laid  up  above, 
Resigned  and  calm  lays  down  his  aching  head 
In  vain  for  rest  upon  his  dying  bed, 
And  yet  whose  spirit  sweetly  sinks  to  rest, 
In  downy  ease  upon  a  Saviour's  breast, 
Till  quite  forgetting  he's  with  anguish  riven, 
His  spirit  revels  midst  the  joys  of  heaven, 
Breathes  the  fresh  odors  fanned  from  angel-wings, 
Lists  to  the  music  heaven's  assembly  sings, 
And  lives  in  heaven  with  rapture  all  aglow, 
E'en  while  the  body  writhes  in  pain  below, 


88  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Go  tell  him,  friendship,  living,  is  a  boon, 
And  that  'tis  hard  that  he  should  die  so  soon; 
He  don't  believe  you,  for  'tis  all  so  plain, 
That  to  die  now,  would  be  his  dearest  gain  ; 
And  when  you  tell  him  'tis  too   soon  to  die, 
If  he  make  any,  this  is  his  reply : 
Fly  swifter  round  ye  lagging  wheels  of  time, 
And  waft  me  upward  to  a  happier  clime  ; 
Avannt,  poor  earth !  you're  poor  beyond  compare, 
To  that  bright  world  just  o'er  the  river  there. 

None  seeing  this  and  hearing  this  would,  sure, 
Say  such  a  death  is  late  or  premature. 

But  there  are  cases  that  the  world  observes, 
Where  some  few  glimpses  shock  its  moral  nerves, 
And  when  they  seem  love's  harmony  to  derange, 
As  if  omniscient,  it  exclaims,  'Tis  strange ! 
When  the  young  truant  feels  correction's  lash, 
The  eyes  of  love  with  indignation  flash  ; 
Why  should  affection  plant  so  keen  a  smart, 
So  inharmonious  to  the  lovino;  heart  ? 

O 

It  grates  harsh  discord  in  affection's  ear, 
The  sigh,  the  cry,  the  shriek  of  woe  to  hear  ; 
But  wjien  that  child,  'neath  stern  affection's  rule, 
Grows  fond  of  books,  of  study,  and  of  school, 
And,  what  is  more  to  fond  affection's  eyes, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  89 

Becomes  more  loving  as  he  grows  more  wise, 
O  !  then  it  feels,  to  judge  aright  an  act, 
One  must  weigh  also  each  collateral  fact, 
See  if,  or  not,  its  true  vibrations  blend 
In  faultless  harmony  onward  to  the  end  ; 
Thus  to  proud  Reason,  with  no  prescient  skill, 
He  kindly  whispers  in  its  ear,  "  Be  still !  " 


THE    LITTLE    MARTYR. 

I  KNOW  a  man  of  cultured  heart  and  mind, 

In  learning  lofty  and  in  taste  refined ; 

His  wife,  accomplished,  seems  expressly  sent 

To  be  that  husband's  fitting  complement, 

And  home  is,  therefore,  but  the  magic  spot, 

Where  love,  peace,  joy,  are  all  in  harmony  wrought 

But  still  affliction  has  presumed  to  come, 

And  plant  its  anguish  in  that  happy  home. 

So  oft,  so  keen,  the  arrow  that  Avas  thrown, 

I  scarcely  dare  to  think  about  my  own  ; 

Four  times  the  hearse  had  driven  to  that  door, 

Till  one  by  one  it  robbed  that  home  of  four  ; 

One  little  fellow  running  o'er  with  charms 

Was  dashed  in  pieces  in  his  mother's  arms,  — 

And  now  that  hearse  was  at  the  door  again, 

To  bear  away  the  fifth  young  martyr  slain. 


90  OUR.  CHARLIE. 

He  was  a  cripple,  but  with  heart  and  mind 
Of  heaven's  most  noble  and  most  lofty  kind ; 
Though  but  a  boy  by  sickness  worn  and  wan, 
He  was,  in  spirit,  every  inch  a  man. 

I  heard  the  father  tell  the  story,  where 
We'd  met,  one  evening,  at  the  place  of  prayer, 
And  then  I  wondered  how,  at  such  a  blow, 
He  could  have  borne  the  crushing  load  of  woe ; 
My  poor  boy's  death  seemed  but  a  scene  of  joy, 
Beside  the  death-pangs  of  that  suffering  boy. 

The    time    had    come    when    that   young    sufferer's 

life 

Had  but  one  resource  —  it  was  surgery's  knife ; 
He'd  suffered  long,  and  yet  the  almost  saint 
Had  never  spoke  one  murmur  or  complaint ; 
He'd  borne  it  all  for  many  and  many  an  hour, 
With  all  a  Christian's,  all  a  martyr's,  power ; 
And  when  the  day  for  the  new  trial  rose, 
And  a  fresh  pang  must  mingle  with  his  woes, 
The  little  hero's  prayer-stayed  spirit  stood 
Firm  as  a  rock  that  stems  old  ocean's  flood, 
And  heartless  surgery  scarce  seemed  calmer  than 
The  pure  calm  spirit  of  that  embryo  man. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  91 

How  stoic-like  the  surgeon's  hand  applied 

The  glittering  knife  to  that  young  martyr's  side  ! 

And  cut  and  hewed  again,  again,  again, 

Till  the  poor  boy  seemed  almost  cut  in  twain; 

But  not  a  groan,  not  one  impatient  word, 

Was,  midst  his  agony,  for  a  moment  heard. 

At  length  'twas  done  —  the  dreadful  torture  o'er, 
And  stern-eyed  Science  quickly  left  the  door; 
And  there  he  lay,  that  little  suffering  child, 
And  toward  his  parents  sweetly  looked  and  smiled. 
He   dreamed  of  life  and  health  and  future  joys, 
When  he  could  run  and  walk  like  other  boys  ; 
And  hope,  fond  hope,  with  its  bewitching  spell, 
Made  him  appear,  just  in  the  future,  well: 
He  saw  himself  robust  in  mind  and  frame, 
No  longer  sickly  and  no  longer  lame, 
And  then  he  thanked  his  heavenly  friend  once  more, 
That  the  dread  ordeal  he  had  passed  was  o'er. 
Poor  boy  !  he  knew  not  agony  like  this, 
Compared  to  that  so  soon  to  come,  was  bliss,  — 
That  the   dread  ordeal,  yet  to  come,  would  be 
The  keenest  pang  of  bitterest  agony. 

In  two  days  more,  stern  Science  must  again 
Reope  the  wound  and  reproduce  the  pain,  — 
Xay,  cause  a  torture  so  intense  and  keen, 


92  OUR    CHARLIE. 

A  fiend  might  weep  to  see  the  dreadful  scene  ; 
Yet  'twas  a  boy  that  must  that  torture  bear,  — 
A  poor  meek  boy  that  lay  all  helpless  there. 
The  moment  came,  and  skill  again  had  come, 
At  Science'  bidding,  to  that  weeping  home, 
And,  with  a  touch  soft  as  it  could  employ, 
Dressed  the  dread  wound  of  that  poor  suffering  boy, 
And  shrieks  and  groans  that  ne'er  were  heard  before 
Now  told  the  tortures  the  young  sufferer  bore. 

'Twas  done  at  last,  and  calm  and  peaceful  rest 
Soothed,  for  a  moment,  his  o'eranguished  breast ; 
And  yet,  God  help  him !  —  for  the  health  he  sees 
Is  reached  —  if   readied  —  through  tortures    such    as 
these. 

The  appointed  time  was  almost  at  the  door, 
When  the  poor  victim  must  be  tortured  more  ; 
And  when  he  thought  of  that  dread  scene  again, 
Of  keenest  torture  and  intensest  pain, 
He  said,  "  Dear  father,  is   there  not  a  way, 
To  'scape  the  anguish  of  that  awful  day  ?  " 
"  My  son,  I  fear  not ;  the  physicians  know, 
And  say,  in  sorrow,  that  it  must  be  so." 

"  But  go  and  ask  them,  if  they'll  not,  alas  ! 
Permit  this  cup,  this  bitter  cup,  to  pass." 


OUR    CHARLIE.  i» 

He  went  and  came,  and  going  to  his  son, 
Said,  "  My  dear  boy,  'tis  so,  it  must  be  done. 

"  But  you're  my  father,  you've  a  right  to  say, 
And  'tis  the  surgeon's  duty  to  obey." 

"  O  !  my  dear  son,  'twould  fill  my  heart  with  joy, 
Could  I  but  suffer  for  my  darling  boy ; 
All  I  can  do  is,  try  my  best  to  save 
The  little  life  that  God  so  kindly  gave. 
God  gave  you  life,  —  'tis  yours  to  try  to  live, 
Nor  throw  away  what  God  has  deigned  to  give  ; 
Nor  you  nor  I  can  pierce  these  forms  we  wear, 
And  find  disease  and  bring  assistance  there  ; 
'Tis  just  as  dangerous  and  as  far  from  right, 
To  work  in  darkness  as  neglect  in  light. 
No,  'twould  be  wrong  to  issue  my  command, 
And  take  you  from  the  skilful  surgeon's  hand  ; 
I  cannot  then  ;   God  gives  the  bitter  cup, 
And  he  will  bless  you,  if  you  drink  it  up  ; 
Think  how  the  Saviour  suffered  on  the  tree, 
Not  for  his  sins,  but  those  of  you  and  me." 

The  poor  boy  heard,  and,  overwhelmed  with  grief, 
His  whole  frame  quivering  like  an  aspen  leaf,  — 


94  OUR    CHARLIE. 

"  No  friend  to  help  me,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh, 
Then  I'll  ask  Jesus  —  He  will  hear  my  cry.'' 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  clasped  his  hands,  and  there 
His  sweet  lips  moved  as  if  in  silent  prayer ; 
His  frame  grew  calm,  he  oped  liis  eyes  and  smiled. 
And  said,  "  I've  asked  Him.    He  will  help  your  child." 

When,  the  next  morn,  the  surgeons  oped  the   door, 
They  found  that  Jesus  had  arrived  before  ; 
And  there  He  hovered  o'er  the  sufferer's  bed, 
And  calmed  his  heart  and  soothed  his  restless  head, 
And,   in  a  moment,  with  a  look,  all  kind, 
He  bore  him  up  and  left  his  wounds  behind. 

At  such  a  scene  proud  Reason  shrinks  away, 
And  feels  there's  nothing  it  can   safely  say, 
'Tis  mystery,  all,  e'en  to  its  piercing  eye, 
And  if  e'er  fathomed,  'twill  be  by  and  by. 
E'en  scepticism  the  verdict  would  not  give, 
That  such  a  sufferer  should  be  left  to  live  ; 
But  Christian  faith  sees  'tis  the  purest  love 
That  took  that  boy  to  realms  of  bliss  above. 

He  had  his  mission,  —  'twas  a  noble  one, 
And  nobly,  proudly  was  the  mission  done, 
And  many  a  soul  may  reach  a  home  of  joy 


OUR    CHARLIE.  95 

By  seeing  how  faith  sustained  a  little  boy ; 
For  faith  ne'er  helped  a  martyr  here  beloAv 
Bear  up  a  bitterer,  heavier  load  of  woe  ; 
And  few  who've  come  on  this  dim  earth  to  dwell 
Have  lived  and  suffered  and  have  died  as  well ; 
And  'twere  the  sheerest  folly  to  maintain 
That  such  a  martyr  lived  and  died  in  vain. 

'Tis  sweet,  dear  Charlie,  to  reflect  that  you 
Had  no  such  fiery  furnace  to  go  through, 
But  your  pure  spirit  took  its  upward  flight, 
Sweet  as  the  twilight  fades  away  to-night,  — 
No  shrieks  or  throes  among  the  memories  twine 
Of  that  pure,  calm,  and  peaceful  death  of  thine. 


THE    TWO    BROTHERS. 

AN  honored  pair,  not  many  years  whilom, 
Lived,  loved,  and  labored,  in  a  happy  home  ; 
Their  lives  were  sureties  for  their  strength  and  health, 
And  wisdom  taught  them  how  to  use  their  wealth. 
They  had  two  sons,  —  bright,  active,  healthy  boys, 
The  warmth  and  sunshine  of  their  home-felt  joys ; 
And  'twas  to  them  their  pride  and  their  delight, 
To  guide  their  minds  and  train  their  heai'ts  aright. 
And  they  were  trained,  and  they  were  wisely  taught, 
Until  from  boyhood  up  to  manhood  brought  ; 


96  OUR    CHARLIE. 

When  well  prepared  they  went  away  to  roam, 
Each  the  young  patriarch  of  a  new-formed  home  ; 
And  happier  men  were  never  seen  than  they 
At  their  new  homesteads  on  their  wedding-day. 

Life  now  beo-an,  with  all  its  calms  and  storms, 

o 

With  all  its  sweeter  and  its  bitterer  forms  ; 
And  which  should  rule,  life's  future  good  or  ill, 
Must  be  the  product  of  their  power  and  skill ; 
And  so  they  knew,  and  so  they  felt,  and  so 
To  life's  stern  duties  they  resolved  to  go. 

Long  years  had  passed,  and  years  of  change  to  hosts, 
But  these  two  brothers  still  were  at  their  posts ; 
Both  had  stood  firm  where  myriads  had  been  wrecked, 
And  both  secured  men's  friendship  and  respect ; 
But  one  to  wealth  and  one   to  want  was  heir, 
Though  both  had  toiled  with  equal  skill  and  care  ; 
Whene'er  one  struck,  beneath  the  plastic  blow 
The  streams  of  wealth  were  sure  to  burst  and  flow  ; 
The  other  smote  with  just  as  strong  a  stroke, 
But  not  a  rill  from  the  dry  earth  awoke, — 
Whate'er  one  did  was  sure  of  golden  gain, 
Whate'er  the  other,  seemed  alas  in  vain  ! 
Men  thought  them  equal,  botli  in  power  and  skill, 
With  equal  zeal  their  mission  to  fulfil, 
But,  with  the  contrast  in  their  stations  struck, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  97 

They  called  it  luck,  or  called  it  lack  of  luck ; 

Although  some  said  a  faculty  was  what 

A  man  must  have  to  gain  a  happy  lot; 

But  whate'er  'twas,  one  thing  was  very  sure  : 

The  one  was  rich,  the  other  very  poor. 

Within  the  cottage  where  the  poor  man  dwelt 

Six  little  sons  beside  his  altar  knelt; 

While  in  the  mansion  of  the  other,  one 

Was  all  he  had,  —  a  pure  and  noble  son. 

'Twas  toil  and  thrift  composed  the  poor  man's  stock, 

To  train  and  clothe  and  feed  his  little  flock  ; 

And  scarce  a  day  he  did  not  feel  perplexed, 

From  whence  would  come  subsistence  for  the  next ; 

And  were  it  not  he'd  a  kind  brother  near, 

Who  loved  to  send  him  many  a  boon,  to  cheer 

Both  cold  and  hunger,  many  a  poor  man's  lot 

Had  been  familiar  in  that  humble  cot. 

The  sweetest  pleasure  and  the  purest  joy 
That  thrilled  the  bosom  of  the  rich  man's  boy, 
Was,  when  his  cousins  came  with  him  to  roam 
O'er  his  green  fields  and  in  his  spacious  home, 
And  feast  their  souls  on  all  around  them  stored, 
And  feast  their  bodies  at  his  father's  board. 

Oh  !  'twas  a  feast  whene'er  they  went  to  play, 
And  rove  the  fields  upon  a  Summer's  day ; 

7 


98  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  the  feast  lasted  not  that  day  alone, 

But  blest  the  hours  of  many  a  following  one ; 

For  joy's  vibrations,  days  and  days,  were  felt, 

In  the  thatched  cottage  where  the  poor  man  dwelt ; 

And  when  these  ended,  though  they  never  ceased, 

Anticipation  spread  another  feast. 

And  in  that  home,  with  plenty  unpossessed, 

The  past  and  future  made  the  present  blest. 

They  loved  each  other,  all  these  cousin  boys, 
And  love,  the  purest  of  their  purest  joys ; 
Their  bond  of  love   was  never  once  untied 
By  pride  or  envy  upon  either  side, 
And  the  poor  home  'scaped  many  a  want  and  woe, 
Thrilled  by  the  rich  one's  generous  overflow. 
Still  they  oft  suffered,  for  the  rich  know  not 
How  oft  there's  suffering  in  the  poor  man's  lot  ; 
One  half  man's  miseries  would  be  overthrown, 
Were  their  existence  always  seen  and  known ; 
The  sensitive  wish,  not  that  their  sighs  and  tears 
Be  seen  and  heard  by  others'  eyes  and  ears, 
And  want  would  rather  bear  misfortune's  blows 
Than  be  forever  harping  on  its  woes. 
True  kindness  does  not  reach  its  loftiest  height, 
When  soothing  suffering  ready  brought  to  light, 
But  when  it  soothes  it,  begging  at  its  door  ; 
And,  like  a  Howard,  goes  and  seeks  for 


OUR    CHARLIE.  99 

So  the  rich  brother  would  have  given  the  poor 

Whate'er  of  comfort  riches  could  procure  ; 

But  life's  stern  duties,  like  huge  mountains  soared 

'Twixt  his  kind  heart  and  brother's  scanty  board. 

So  busy  life,  like  Belial's  heartless  priests, 

Oft  keeps  pure  goodness  from  its  daintiest  feasts, 

As  without  malice  thoughtless  Christians  even 

Keep,  by  example,  myriads  out  of  heaven. 

'Twas  at  a  time,  when  happy,  light,  and  gay, 
The  boys  had  met  to  spend  a  holiday, 
And  they  were  roving  in  their  usual  rounds, 
All  o'er  the  rich  man's  pleasant  rural  grounds  : 
The  heavens  grew  black,  as  with  an  ebon  shroud, 
And  the  whole  sky  seemed  one  unbroken  cloud, 
The  lightnings  flashed,  the  grumbling  thunder  roared. 
And  the  full  shower  its  dancing  torrents  poured. 
The  laughing  cousins  for  the  covert  run, 
Showers  did  not  fright  them,  —  they  afforded  fun ; 
They  hied  for  shelter  to  a  grove  of  green, 
Where  spreading  branches  formed  a  partial  screen, 
And  there  they  sat,  and  from  that  leafy  bower, 
They  watched  the  progress  of  that  merry  shower, 
And  oft  looked  up  to  see  if  heaven's  clear  blue 
Above  their  heads  were  really  looking  through  ; 
Just  then  a  flash,  a  sudden  roar  above, 
The  red  bolt  sped  to  that  same  sheltering  grove ; 


100  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Limb  after  limb  was  twisted  off  and  sent 
Among  the  boys  beneath  the  branches  bent; 
All  were  unhurt  of  that  gay  group,  but  one, 
He  lay  a  corpse,  —  it  was  the  rich  man's  son. 

The  world  said,  Strange  the  red  bolt  was  not  sped 
Upon  some  other's  than  his  pleasant  head ; 
That  crowded  household,   had  the  deed  been  done, 
Out  of  its  inmates,  might  have  given  one. 

Had  human  Reason  had  that  bolt  to  throw, 
Not  that  kind  boy  had  felt  the  fatal  blow  ; 
He  would  have  bade  the  fatal  shaft  transfix, 
Out  of  the  poor  man's  starving,  needy  six. 
Then  the  poor  father,  though  of  one  bereft, 
Had  felt  he'd  five  bright  little  fellows  left; 
And  Reason  thinks,  had  he  but  ordered  so, 
All  our  best  instincts  had  approved  the  blow ; 
One  blest  with  plenty  would  have  been  alive, 
And  the  poor  household  had  the  living  five. 

O  !  my  dear  boy !  'twas  not  for  human  wit 
To  say  whose  head  Death's  shining  bolt  should  hit, 
For  then,  methinks,  my  little  blue-eyed  boy 
Had  still  been  here  to  fill  our  home  with  joy. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  101 


THE    LITTLE    GENIUS. 

THERE  is  a  household  that  I  know  full  well, 
Where  two  fond  parents  love-cemented  dwell ; 
In  that  sweet  home,  while  it  was  fresh  and  .young, 
A  beauteous  boy  of  golden  promise  sprung ; 
But  the  fond  bosom,  where  it  first  was  pressed, 
At  length  went  up  to  throb  among  the  blest. 
Another  came,  and  that  beloved  son 
Found  it  as  downy  as  the  natural  one. 
The  first  had  flown,  like  some  enchanting  bird, 
But  its  sweet  echoes  still  each  bosom  stirred, 
And  the  new  voice,  in  perfect  harmony  set, 
Changed  the  old  trio  to  a  new  quartette. 

Whate'er  life's  toils,  perplexities,  and  cares, 

A  happy  home  of  buoyant  hearts  was  theirs, 

And  had  Religion  not  been  there  to  check, 

Joy's  dancing  life-boat  might  have  been  a  wreck  ; 

But  she  was  there,  and  ruled  the  helm  so  well 

That  they  were  happy  whatsoe'er  befell. 

E'en  from  the  first  the  prophecy  began 

That  that  young  boy  would  be  no  common  man ; 

The  fire  of  Genius,  like  Isaiah's  coal, 

Fresh  from  her  altar,  kindled  his  young  soul, 

And  as  along  through  bovhood  he  careered, 


102  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Fresh  scintillations  at  each  step  appeared, 

And  feats  of  skill,  by  him  contrived  and  planned, 

Leaped  into  being  from  his  cunning  hand  ; 

And  young  Invention,  starting  at  his  will, 

Showed  magic  worthy  of  a  veteran's  skill ; 

And  books  allured,  and  learning  had  her  charms, 

And  Truth  bewitching  clasped  him  in  her  arms, 

And  though,  boy-like,  of  play  and  sport  brimful, 

He  was  a  star  in  social  life  and  school. 

Unlike  those  strange,  precocious  things  of  earth 

That  come  like  Pallas,  all  equipped  at  birth, 

Who,  men  in  boyhood,  dazzle  earth,  and  then 

Play  out  their  manhood,  and  grow  stupid  men, 

He,  ever  active,  never,  like  a  shirk, 

Left  intuition  to  perform  the  work, 

Nor  wished  to  find,  however  toil  might  frown, 

A  royal  road  to  honor  and  renown. 

Health,  rosy  goddess,  by  preemptive  claim, 
Reigned  in  each  fibre  of  his  manly  frame, 
And  seemed  to  say,  as  with  a  prophet  tongue, 
That  that  bright  genius  would  not  perish  young. 

Religion's  spirit,  like  the  falling  dew, 

Dropped   on   his   heart   and  thrilled  it    through   and 

through, 
And  his  young  being,  with  her  spirit  fraught, 


OUR    CHARLIE. 

Seemed  all  in  harmony  with  the  truths  she  taught ; 
The  little  altar  that  he'd  reared  to  Heaven 
Ne'er  lacked  his  presence  either  morn  or  even, 
And  life  with  him,   e'en  while  hut  yet  a  boy, 
Was  full  of  play,  but  fuller  of  employ ; 
Work,  study,  frolic,  piety,  and  play, 
All  wreathed  in  harmony,  filled  each  passing  day, 
And  all  believed,  who  used  his  life  to  scan, 
That  such  a  boy  would  be  a  useful  man. 

Ah  !  that  home  knew  not  how  much  of  its  joy 
Sprang  from  the  gift  of  such  a  noble  boy  ; 
For  if  high  hopes  had  ever  cause  to  start 
And  fill  the  chambers  of  a  parent's  heart, 
'Twas  these  two  bosoms,  in  whose  down  that  boy 
So  oft  had  nestled  for  his  feast  of  joy, 
And,  with  life's  sun  declining  in  the  west, 
They  hoped,  in  turn,  to  nestle  in  his  breast. 

Cold,  shivering  Winter  had  .begun  to  show 
Signs  of  relenting,  with  its  frost  and  snow ; 
The    snow-banks    swooned,    and    frost's    chill    fetters- 
broke, 

And  rills  unnumbered  into  action  woke  ; 
First  silver  threads  come  trickling  down  the  way, 
Then  others  join,  and  down  the  hill-sides  play, 
Till,  reinforced  by  swooning  ice  and  snow, 


104  OUR    CHARLIE. 

They  swell  to  torrents,  and  like  torrents  flow, 

And  rush  and  leap,  resistless  in  their  track, 

Until  they  plunge  within  the  Merrimack ; 

And  others  come  that  young  Niagaras  seem, 

That  plough  their  way  and  plunge  within  the  stream, 

Till  the  old  river,  from  these  fierce  attacks, 

Swells  to  the  size  of  twenty  Merrimacks, 

And  its  green  valley  seems  at  length  to  be, 

Not  a  green  valley,  but  an  inland  sea ; 

And  lo  !  at  length,  the  swelling  waters  come 

Within  the  precincts  of  that  happy  home, 

And  in  scooped  hollows  fiercely  plunging,  make 

In  many  a  field  full  many  a  mimic  lake. 

Our  little  genius,  merrier  than  a  lark, 

Had  built  his  craft,  and  hastened  to  embark, 

And,  as  commander,  he  began  to  make 

A  hasty  voyage  around  the  little  lake, 

But  the  young  helmsman,  steering  from  the  strand, 

Like  Palinurus,  never  came  to  land. 

That  day  at  school  the  little  boys  discussed 

The  different  ways  that  dust  returns  to  dust ; 

Each  tyro  told  how  he'd  prefer  to  die, 

And  gave  his  reasons,  all  substantial,  why ; 

Each  chose  the  way,  whene'er  life's  journey  ceased, 

Whose  sufferings  were,  in  his  opinion,  least ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  105 

And  little  Henry  told,  at  last,  his  views, 
And  what  the  mode  of  dying  he  would  choose ; 
\lethinks,  to  go  within  the  crystal  wave 
Would  be  the  easiest  passage  to  the  grave  ; 

0  !  when  I  go,  if  God  should  think  it  best, 
Let  me  be  rocked  within  the  waves  to  rest, 
Where  unassailed  by  sickness'  ghastly  train, 
And  all  unscarred  by  violence  or  by  pain, 

1  may  lie  down  within  the  crystal  deep 
As  calm  and  life-like  as  if  fallen  asleep  ; 
Then,  when  fond  love  shall  look  its  last  adieu, 
I  shall  not  be  a  loathsome  thing  to  view, 

But  pleasant  object  over  which  they'll  bend, 
And  love  to  think  of  to  their  journey's  end. 

That  very  day,  ere  eve  her  dews  had  shed, 
Henry  was  lying  in  his  watery  bed. 

Had  human  Reason  guided  at  the  helm, 
And  been  the  Neptune  of  that  watery  realm, 
He  would  have  bidden  Henry's  little  boat 
Bear  its  freight  safely  o'er  the  lake  afloat ; 
Then,  when  the  frolic  and  the  sail  were  o'er, 
Bring  the  young  mariner  safe  and  sound  ashore ; 
Or,  if  a  victim  must  be  taken,  take 
Some  ragged  boy  and  plunge  him  in  the  lake ; 
And  man,  wise  man,  without  a  moment's  pause, 
Had  given  the  deed  his  heartiest  applause. 


106  OUR    C  PI  A  RUE. 

And  hast  them,  man,  the  wisdom  to  divine 
Which  had  been  best,  God's  providence  or  thine  ? 
Who,  though  thou  triest  until  the  "  crack  of  doom,' 

7  O 

Canst  never  pierce  one  inch  beyond  the  tomb  ; 

Nor  though  with  sages  and  with  seers  to  guide, 

Hast  power  to  pierce  one  inch  ahead  this  side. 

'Tis  not  God's  way,  His  glory  to  insure, 

To  deal  His  vengeance  only  on  the  poor, 

Nor  when  he '  deals  an  unexpected  blow, 

Smite  only  those  who're  unprepared  to  go  ; 

Nor  yet,  whene'er  he  bids  a  mortal  come, 

Take  but  the  stupid  and  the  vicious  home. 

He  sees  each  link  of  cause's  endless  chain, 

And  feels  each  pulse  throughout  his  broad  domain, 

And  knows  exactly,  by  an  errless  test, 

What  Providence  is  wisest,  kindest,  best. 

And  the  wise  parent,  howe'er  sad,  is  awed, 

And  feels  'tis  best  to  leave  it  all  to  God. 


THE    ONLY    SON. 

I  KNEW  a  mother,  polished  and  refined, 

Grace    thrilled    her    heart,    and    learning    filled    her 

mind,  — 
A  model  lady,  modest,  kind,  and  true, — 


OUR    CHARLIE.  107 

Beloved,  admired  by   every  one  that  knew. 

She  had  one  son,  a  bright  and  blooming  boy, 

To  train  whom  rightly  was  her  highest  joy  ; 

Not  weak  and  blind,  'twas  with  a  lynx-eyed  skill, 

She  watched  his  faults  and  trained  his  stubborn  will, 

Pruned    each    excrescence,    checked    each    tortuous 

growth, 

To  make  all  vigorous  and  symmetric  both  ; 
And  all  that  saw,  foretold,  with  seer-like  joy, 
A  life  of  honor  for  that  noble  boy. 
And  that  fond  mother  prayed  and  taught  and  toiled, 
That  her  dear  boy  might  not  be  praised  and  spoiled. 

The  child  was  ill,  and  round  his  weary  bed 

She  bent  and  moved  with  quick  and  careful  tread, 

Watched  every  symptom,  every  light  and  shade, 

And  the  best  skill  invited  to  his  aid  ; 

And  as  she  saw  him  daily  fade  away 

And  still  grow  weaker  each  succeeding  day, 

Earth's  hopes,  joys,  treasures,  all  alike  grew  dim, 

For  if  her  boy  died,  all  would  die  with  him. 

O  !  how  she  prayed  that  her  dear  child  might  live,  — 

The  sweetest  boon  that  God  had  power  to  give  ! 

But  still  he  languished,  still  from  day  to  day 

She  saw  him  sadly  droop  and  fade  away ! 

Till  the  sad  truth  before  her  seemed  to  ope : 

Your  boy  must  die,  there  is  no  longer  hope ; 


108  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Then,  in  the  blackness  of  her  deep  despair, 

She  bowed  and  knelt  and  shrieked  aloud  her  prayer : 

"  God  spare  my  child,  —  O  !  spare  my  darling  son  ; 
God  spare  my  boy,  —  he  is  my  only  one  ; 
Take  any  blessing  from  me,  O  !  my  God, 
But  spare  my  boy,  and  I  will  kiss  the  rod  ; 
Deny  all  else,  whate'er  the  blessing  be, 
But  leave  my  own  dear  darling  boy  to  me. 
I  must  not  lose  him,  O  !  withhold  the  blow  — 
O,  spare  the  child  —  I  cannot  let  him  go." 

She  could  not  say,  —  Spare  my  beloved  son,  — 
"Yet  not  as  I  will — let  thy  will  be  done, —  " 
And  so  God  spared  him,  as  the  mother  prayed  ; 
O  !  'twas  a  miracle,  everybody  said. 
The  kind  physicians  gave  the  matter  o'er, 
They'd  done  their  utmost,  and  they  could,  no  more, 
And  they  had  told  her,  —  told  her  with  a  sigh, 
Skill  has  done  all,  —  your  little  boy  must  die. 
And  when  God  saved  him,  suffering,  dying  there, 
The  mother  felt  that  God  had  heard  her  prayer. 

And  so  he  lived,  —  and  twenty  years  from  then, 
That  boy  lay  chained  within  a  felon's  den, 
And  justice  waited  at  the  outer  door, 
To  swing  him  off  and  all  would  then  be  o'er ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  109 

And  but  one  joy  was  with  her  sorrows  blent : 
'Twas  that  her  poor  son  died  a  penitent. 

O  !  my  poor  boy,  upon  the  bended  knee, 
With  all  our  hearts,  how  warm  our  prayers  for  thee  ! 
And  then  we  prayed  that  God  would  let  us  give 
Our  own  lives  up,  if  our  dear  boy  might  live ; 
We  dared  not  say,  —  We  cannot  spare  our  son, 
But  always  added,  —  "Let  thy  will  be  done." 
And  when   God  took  thee  and  refused  our  prayer. 
We  felt  he  did  it  to  attract  us  there. 

And  ever  since,  we've  felt  it  in  the  heart, 
We  soon  shall  meet  thee,  never  more  to  part ; 
And  then  we  think  that  God  did  hear  us  pray, 
And  gave  the  blessing  in  the  heavenliest  way. 
We  prayed  that  Charlie  might  continue  ours, 
To  make  life  pleasant  within  home's  sweet  bowers, 
The  prayer  was  heard,  —  the  blessing  will  be  given, — 
To  bless  life's  future  in  our  home  in  heaven. 


BENEFIT    OF    AFFLICTIONS. 

AH,  me  !  how  sorrow  will  the  bosom  scathe, 
That  is  too  wise  to  need  the  aid  of  faith, 
To  yield  obedience  to  a  blind  command, 


HO  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Or  take  a  truth  it  cannot  understand. 
When  sorrow  comes,  the  bitter  is  complete, 
Unintermingled  with  a  single  sweet ; 
The  stoic  WILL,  with  anaesthetic  care, 
May  blunt  the  soul  till  it  has  power  to  bear, 
Or  time's  attritions  wear  the  edge  of  grief, 
Till  the  sad  heart-throes  issue  in  relief. 
It  does  not  heed,  or  else  it  is  to  spurn, 
The  useful  lesson  sorrow  gives  to  learn, 
And  so  no  crown  is  given  him  for  the  cross, 
And  no  gain  issues  from  the  dreadful  loss  ; 
He  loses,  when  affliction  drops  from  heaven, 
The  sweetest  lesson  God  has  ever  given. 

O  !  sweet  Affliction,  when  we  use  it  right, 
It  brings  a  feast  of  unalloyed  delight, 
And  in  this  life  how  few  of  all  that  weep, 
The  glorious  harvest,  sorrow  offers,  reap  ! 
When  mind  gets  tangled  in  the  web  of  thought, 
How  sweetly  faith  can  cut  the  Gordian  knot ! 
When  dear  ones  leave  us,  and  from  earth  remove, 
Faith  whispers  sweetly,  it  was  done  in  love  ; 
And  what  we  cannot  understand  below, 
Faith  kindly  comes  and  freely  lets  us  know. 
Our  Cliarlie  died  ;  —  the  fact  alone  Avas  plain, 
The  cause  and  purpose  nothing  could  explain, 
Till  faith  assured  us  it  was  done  in  love, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  Ill 

To  bid  us  look  to  purer  joys  above. 

Are  earth's  attractions  fewer  or  less  fair  ? 

Heaven's  are  more  numerous  now  tliat  he  is  there. 

One  of  the  sweetest  sources  of  your  joy 

Was  sweet  communion  with  your  darling  boy  ; 

You  need  not  lose  it,  —  still  commune,  and  this 

Will  help  attract  you  to  a  home  of  bliss  ; 

You've  darlings  yet,  —  let  not  an  earthly  love 

Outdraw  the  ties  attracting  you  above  ; 

Another  blow  might  be,  in  kindness,  sent, 

Another  bond  of  earthly  love  be  rent ; 

The  traveller  meets  more  dangers  here  below 

Who  moves  in  pleasure  than  who  wades  in  woe. 

Prosperity  has  led  more  souls  astray 

Than  its  black  rival  ever  frowned  away. 

Our  little  ones,   the  source  of  so  much  joy, 

Oft  siren-like  enchant  us  and  destroy, 

And  our  kind  Father,  full  of  pity,  sees, 

Strikes  down  the  siren,  and  the  captive  frees. 

When  life  goes  well,  how  pleasant  pour  earth  seems, 

Fair  as  a  landscape  that  we  see  in  dreams  ; 

And  e'en  the  good  man,  without  some  rebuff, 

Acts  as  if  life  were  really  quite  enough. 

But  let  him  lose  some  dear  and  precious  things, 

Let  wealth  fly  off  upon  its  yellow  wings, 

Let  his  sweet  children  from  his  heart  be  rent, 

Or-  dear  companions  into  darkness  sent, 


112  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  then  he  thinks  of  bright  possessions  lost, 
And  dreams  of  brighter  on  a  heavenly  coast ; 
And  then  he  thinks  of  his  dear  ones  above, 
And  then  of  Him  whose  very  name  is  love, 
And  feels  when  he,  on  Jordan's  further  side, 
Wakes  with  His  likeness,  he'll  be  satisfied. 


THE    MERCHANT. 

I  KNEW  a  man,  and  loved  him  as  a  friend, 
And  watched  his  history  to  his  journey's  end  ; 
With  a  clear  head  and  genial  heart,  he  moved 
Midst  friends  and  kindred,  loving  and  beloved. 
The  fields  of  Science  and  the  fields  of  Art 
Possessed  few  witcheries  for  his  mind  and  heart ; 
He  sought  for  knowledge,  not  the  most  or  least, 
'Twas  not  to  him  a  penance  or  a  feast. 
So  my  friend  fed  on  Science  and  on  Art, 
But  to  gain  strength  for  what  he  had  at  heart ; 
And  that  he  gained  sufficient  for  the  strife 
That  traffic  brings  along  the  path  of  life,  — 
Two  objects  always  beckoned  him  before, 
First  to  be  rich,  then  liberal  with  his  store  : 
By  thrift  and  labor,  study,  toil,  and  care, 
To  gain  the  station  of  a  millionnaire ; 
And  both  while  gaining,  and  of  wealth  possessed, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  113 

To  use  it  freely,  making  others  blest. 
Not  love  of  fame  inspired  his  heart  alone. 
For  genuine  kindness  had,  within,  a  throne  , 
And  to  have  wealth,  and  having,  not  to  give, 
Had  made  it  misery,  made  it  woe,  to  live  ; 
And  with  a  heart  as  generous  as  his  own, 
Joy  had  died  out  to  share  his  wealth  alone. 

Thus  he  began  and  wealth  flowed  in  apace, 

And  streams  flowed  out  earth's  sorrows  to  efface  ; 

And  though  gain  was  not  at  life's  board  the  least, 

Yet  Charity  was  the  dessert  of  the  feast. 

But  year  by  year  trade  multiplied  affairs, 

And  added  business  brought  him  added  cares, 

And  just  inversely  as  his  gains  increased, 

The  pleasant  dessert  vanished  at  the  feast. 

Not  that  he  meant,  as  long  as  he  should  live, 

To  lose  the  luxury  that  it  gave,  to  give  ; 

But  fortune's  favors  so  like  sirens  smiled, 

His  hours  were  captured  and  his  thoughts  beguiled  ; 

And  suffering  found  it  harder  every  year        f 

To  tell  its  story  and  to  gain  his  ear, 

For  whene'er  going  to  the  Merchant's  door, 

They  found  that  business  had  gone  in  before.  . 

All  went  on  smoothly,  —  Commerce's  merry  sails 
Seemed  always  filled  with  only  prosperous  gales ; 


114  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Gain  came  so  flush,  it  took  him  night  and  day, 
To  count  the  sum,  and  stow  the  sum  away, 
Until,  at  length,  with  all  his  treasures  there, 
Men  set  him  down  a  solid  millionnaire. 

And  on  he  moved,  as  smoothly  as  a  dream, 
Down  the  gay  current  of  life's  merry  stream  ; 
Wealth  filled  his  coffers  ever  brimming  o'er, 
And  each  new  moment  only  added  more ; 
Adversity  ne'er  mingled  with  his  lot, 
Till  he  had  almost  such  a  thing  forgot, 
And  life,  all  lovely  as  the  hues  of  even, 
Seemed  good  enough,  without  a  future  heaven. 
His  earthly  feast  was  so  surpassing  sweet, 
He  quite  forgot  some  had  but  crumbs  to  eat ; 
And  worse  than  this,  he'd  quite  forgot  that  some, 
E'en  his  near  neighbors,  had  not  e'en  a  crumb. 
Thus  'midst  the  billows  of  old  Traffic  tost, 
He  did  not  dream  how  much  he  daily  lost. 

But  God  looked  on  with  all  a  father's  care, 
And  saw  the  dangers  that  beset  him  there, 
And  —  out  of  pity,  out  of  love,  'twas  done  — 
Struck  down  his  only  well-beloved  son  ; 
And  said,  "  Perhaps,  if  I  remove  a  part 
Of  all  the  cares  that  cluster  round  his  heart, 
He  will,  once  more,  poor  Sorrow's  patron  be, 
And  e'en,  perhaps,  may  give  his  heart  to  mo. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  115 

0  !  how  the  father  staggered  'neath  that  stroke ! 
With  a  sad  heart  —  alas  !  'twas  almost  broke  — 
He  tried,  in  .vain,  amidst  affliction's  blows, 

To  bear  his  burdens  and  endure  his  woes ; 

At  last  he  roused  him,  and  he  said  I  can, 

And  I  will  be,  from  this  good  hour,  a  man. 

And  then,  more  deeply  plunging  in  affairs, 

He  banished  sorrow  by  his  added  cares, 

And  bidding  business  take  each  wish  and  thought, 

His  pangs  were  hushed  and  all  his  woes  forgot  ; 

Or  if,  perhaps,  his  sorrows,  half  suppressed, 

Did  sometimes  grate  harsh  discord  in  his  breast, 

Seen  on  the  canvas  of  his  pictured  bliss, 

It  only  seemed  an  ugly  cicatrice. 

And  life  passed  on  as  merry  as  a  dream, 

And  gain  came  flowing  in  a  yellow  stream, 

And  then  he  thought,  if  he  did  think,  how  strange ! 

There    are    no    poor    folks !    what   has    caused    the 

change  ? 

They  used  to  come  —  whole  flocks  of  ragged  poor  — 
Around  my  warehouse  and  my  mansion  door, 
And  I  would  give  them,  till  their  sorrows  ceased, 
And  always  found  that  'twas  my  sweetest  feast ; 

1  lose  it  now,  —  the  dessert,  once  so  sweet,  — 
We  have  no  poor,  and  want  is  obsolete. 
Poor  man  !  —  it  never  entered  in  his  mind, 


116  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  want  was  near  him,  but  himself  was  blind, — 

Nay,  within  hearing,  on  her  ragged  bed, 

A  mother  starved,  and  children  cried  for  bread ; 

But  time  passed  smoothly,  princely  fortune  smiled, 

And  her  rich  treasures  in  his  coffers  piled, 

And  the  poor  rich  man  scarce,  if  ever,  thought 

He  was  not  doing  everything  he  ought. 

But  God  still  watched  him,  and  he  loved  him  so, 

To  make  him  blest,  He  struck  another  blow : 

Storms  dashed  his  ships  upon  the  treacherous  rocks, 

Fires  swept  his  stores  and  bankruptcy  his  stocks ; 

His  princely  fortune  dwindled  to  a  speck, 

With  but  a  pittance  gathered  from  the  wreck, 

Yet  with  that  pittance,  freed  from  crushing  cares, 

He  was  far  richer  than  our  millionnaires  ; 

He  found  joy's  feast  far  sweeter  than  before, 

And  the  old  dessert  on  his  board  once  more ; 

Want  came  around  as  plenty  as  whilom, 

And  found  him  in  at  counting-house  and  home  ; 

His  treasures  now  —  he  saw  them  up  above  : 

His  little  boy  was  looking  down  in  love, 

And  best  of  all,  the  Man  of  Sorrows  bent, 

And  smiled  upon  him,  wheresoe'er  he  went, 

And  he  ne'er  ceased,  until  life's  final  close, 

To  thank  his  God  for  those  two  stunning  blows. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  117 

Affliction,  O  !  thou  messenger  of  love, 

Sent  down  to  bid  us  lift  our  thoughts  above, 

o 

When  thou  didst  come  and  rend  the  ties  apart, 
That  bound  ourselves  and  Charlie  heart  to  heart, 
The  pulse  of  sorrow  for  an  instant  stopped, 
And  not  a  crystal  from  its  fountain  dropped. 

When  the  cold  lead,  from  Berdan's  rifle  shot, 
Ploughs  through  his  form,  the  victim  heeds  it  not ; 
The  nerves  must  rally  and  be  brought  in  act, 
Ere  the  brave  man  is  conscious  of  the  fact. 

We  saw  him  sick,  and  watched  him  night  and  day. 

And  saw  him  wasting,  wasting  slow  awav, 

His  languor  spreading  as  his  strength  decreased, 

And  his  breath  shortening,  till  his  breathing  ceased  ; 

And  then  we  saw  him  lying,  through  the  day, 

A  worthless  thing,  —  a  lifeless  lump  of  clay. 

We  got  a  coffin,  very  rich  and  fair, 

Of  polished  rosewood,  and  we  laid  him  there  ; 

Then  bore  him  off,  and  gently  laid  him  by, 

In  the  green  homestead  where  our  dear  ones  lie, 

And  where,  thank  God,  when  He  shall  think  it  best, 

We  hope  to  go,  and  with  them  sweetly  rest. 

And  then  we  turned  and  rode  away,  and  this, 

Without  one  kiss,  —  the  usual  parting  kiss,  — 

Rode  off  and  left  him,  nevermore  to  come, 


118  OUR-   CHARLIE. 

And  meet,  or  greet,  or  kiss  us  at  sweet  home, — 
Rode  off  and  left  him  rudely,  vilely  thrust 
In  the  cold  grave,  to  mingle  with  the  dust. 

But  O  !  not  yet  our  bosoms  had  begun 

To  feel  the  absence  of  our  darling  one, 

Nor  half  appreciate,  staggering  'neath  the  cross, 

The  fearful  import  of  the  dreadful  loss, 

Nor  even  feel  the  expectation  vain, 

That  our  dear  boy  might  yet  come  home  again. 

But  time  moved  on,  and  every  moment  brought 

Some  fresh  memorial  that  our  child  was  not, 

Showed  us  some  record  upon  memory's  leaf, 

That  added  anguish  to  our  load  of  grief; 

And,  to  this  day,  our  bosoms,  sorrow-tossed, 

But  just  begin  to  feel  how  much  we  lost. 

We  might  have  plunged  more  deep  in  earth's  affairs, 
Assumed  new  duties,  new  pursuits,  and  cares, 
Till  all  absorbed  in  every  wish  and  thought, 
We  had  our  darling  and  our  woes  forgot; 

c_»  O          •* 

But  we  could  not,  —  Grod  did  it,  and  we  meant 
To  find  the  meaning  of  the  message  sent. 

With  faith's  keen  eye,  we  followed  the  dear  boy, 
Through  the  dark  valley,  to  his  home  of  joy  ; 
We  saw  him  seated  on  his  little  throne, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  119 

All  ready,  waiting,  for  our  darling  one, 

And  then  we  gazed,  if  we  might  haply  trace, 

The  fadeless  charms  that  deck  the  Holy  Place, 

And  tried  to  find  the  source  of  beauty  there, 

That  made  each  object  so  exceeding  fair ; 

And  source  of  bliss  within  that  realm  of  rest, 

That  makes  each  being  so  completely  blest. 

We  found  heaven's  bliss  and  charms   on  every  side 

Were  but  the  radiance  from  the  Crucified, 

And  should  that  radiance  vanish  from  its  bowers, 

Heaven  would  be  dim  as  this  poor  earth  of  ours  ; 

And    while    we    gazed,    our    hearts    seemed    knit    in 

love 

With  the  pure  spirits  and  their  bliss  above. 
And  then  we  felt  'twould  cause  a  throb  of  pain, 
To  come  and  rove  this  dull,  cold  earth  again ; 
And  when  we  came,  our  dear  old  homestead  seemed 
Not  half  so  pleasant  as  before  we  deemed. 
And  one  sweet  source  of  pleasure  every  day 
Was  sadly  blotted,  rudely  swept  away. 

And  now  we  oftener  lift  our  thoughts  above, 
And  earth  seems  now  to  have  far  less  to  love. 
But  all  the  charms,  from  earth's  gay  landscape  riven, 
Are  now  transported  to  the  realms  of  heaven ; 
And  oft  wre  long  to  have  the  moment  come, 
When  we  and  ours  shall  all  get  safely  home. 


120  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  now  we  feel  we've  found  the  reason  why 
Our  dear,  dear  Charlie  had  so  young  to  die ; 
God  grant  we  may  not,  whate'er  else  we  do, 
Lose  both  our  Charlie  and  the   blessing  too. 


THE    PASTOIJ. 

HE  was  my  Pastor,  and  I  loved  him  well ; 

His  teachings  still  within  my  bosom  dwell, 

And  if  I  ever  reach  the  fields  of  heaven, 

I  shall  owe  much  to  his  wise  counsels  given. 

His  was  a  frame,  strong,  stalwart,  hale,  and  vast, 

And  after  Nature's  manliest  pattern  cast. 

His  was  a  mind  capacious,  mighty,  keen, 

That  grappled  truths  and  fathomed  what  they  mean  ; 

And  his  a  heart  whose  pulses  used  to  play, 

Sweet  as  an  angel's,  and  as  pure  as  they. 

Like  a  huge  train,  his  ponderous  mind  required 

To  be  supplied  with  fuel  and  be  fired  ; 

But  when  it  moved,  there's  nothing  could  attack 

And  stop  the  train,  and  throw  it  from  the  track  ; 

The  dust  of  error  might  obscure  the  rails, 

He  blew  it  from  them  and  outstripped  the  gales. 

Like  a  huge  steamer  on  the  sea  of  truth, 

He  ploughed  the  waves,  however  rough  or  smooth  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  121 

Calm  as  old  Neptune,  at  the  helm  he  sat, 

And   watched    Truth's   polestar,    for    he    steered    by 

that. 

The  wrecker  Error  might  false  lights  employ, 
To  lure  him  on  the  breakers  and  destroy ; 
It  could  not  lure  him,  for  he  saw  and  knew 
Which  lights  were  false,  and  which  were  right  and 

true  ; 

He  knew  the  chart  and  every  reef  and  rock, 
And  shelf  and  quicksand,  to  the  very  dock. 

Not  sour,  morose,  and  sombre  and  severe, 

He  loved  gay  converse  and  he  loved  good  cheer ; 

But,   while  unbending,  never  went  so  far, 

He  gave  sweet  duty  either  strain  or  scar. 

Thus  was  our  pastor  to  our  hearts  allied, 

A  boon  companion  and  a  prudent  guide. 

And  so  we  loved  him,  —  loved  him,  for  we  felt 
He  prayed  for  us,  whene'er  he  meekly  knelt ;  — 
Loved,  for  we  knew  the  mighty  mind  he  bore 
Dug  from  truth's  mine  the  richest,  purest  ore  ;  — 
Loved,  for  his  bosom  used  to  bound  or  melt, 
In  harmony  with  the  joy  or  woe  we  felt ; 
And  last,  we  loved  him,  if  for  nought  beside, 
Because  we  could  not  help  it,  if  we  tried. 


122  OUR    CHARLIE. 

His  youthful  home  was  a  most  charming  realm, 
For  he'd  an  angel  with  him  at  the  helm, 
And  little  cherubs,  starting  up  between, 
Made  it  a  very,  very  hallowed  scene. 
But  soon  that  angel  took  her  upward  flight, 
And  bore  off'  with  her  many  a  ray  of  light  ; 
And  the  young  cherubs,  robbed  of  one  sweet  nest, 
Came  warmly  nestling  in  the  father's  breast. 

Well  I  remember  —  though  'tis  many  years  — 
How  the  man  melted  to  a  child  in  tears, 
And  how  the  Christian,  getting  aid  from  God, 
Bowed  meekly  down,  and  smiling,  kissed  the  rod  ; 
And  though  earth  seemed  all  covered  with  a  blight, 
Heaven  seemed  more  full  of  beauty  and  delight. 

Time  passed,  and  home,  though  still  a  sweet  retreat, 
Lacked  one  rich  source  of  much  that  made  it  sweet, 
When  lo !  an  angel  gliding  to  the  realm, 
Sweet  as  the  lost  one,  mildly  seized  the  helm ; 
And  cherubs  came,  fresh  cherubs  from  above, 
And  filled  that  home,  full  as  before,  with  love. 
But  God  appeared  in  kindness  as  before, 
And  filled  that  home  with  siojis  and  tears  once  more : 

O 

Two  cherubs  melted  one  by  one  away, 
Like  crystal  dew-drops  in  a  summer  day, 
And  Mercy's  angel  seemed  new  founts  to  ope 


OUR    CHARLIE.  123 

Of  manly  patience  and  of  Christian  hope ; 

And  they  did  drink,  and  by  His  presence  awed, 

Like  parents  wept,  like  Christians  kissed  the  rod ; 

And  when  God  rent  those  tender  ties  apart, 

They  felt  Him  saying,  "  Son,  give  me  thy  heart ;  " 

And  though  earth's  feast  became  less  rich  and  sweet, 

They  now  had  manna  fresh  from  heaven  to  eat. 

The  first  two  cherubs  (how  the  young  do  grow  !) 
Had  grown  too  old  to  be  called  cherubs  now ; 
One  was  a  man  of  no  degenerate  stock, 
But  a  true  chip  of  the  paternal  block, 
Well-trained  and  taught  in  science  and  in  art, 
And  with  grace  early  planted  in  his  heart. 
He,  full  of  vigor,  full  of  hope,  began, 
Just  at  man's  threshold,  to  enact  the  man, 
And  friend  and  kindred,  full  of  hope  and  joy, 
Looked  to  the  future  of  that  manly  boy. 

Away  from  home,  but  not  from  those  that  loved, 
For  Friendship  found  him  wheresoe'er  he  moved, 
And  with  u  Excelsior "  on  his  flag  unfurled, 
He  now  began  to  grapple  with  the  world. 
A  loving  grandsire  standing  at  his  side, 
His  steadfast  friend,  wise  counsellor,  and  guide, 
Health's  buoyant  spirit  seemed  his  frame  to  fill, 
And  every  fibre  of  his  being  thrill ; 


124  OUR    CHARLIE.. 

And  had  an  artist  wished  a  model,  who 
Might  sit  for  health,  the  genuine  and  the  true, 
'Twould  have  inspired  him  with  delight  and  joy, 
To  find  so  stalwart  and  robust  a  boy. 

One  day  he  drooped,  and  friendship  thought  'twas  best 

The  wounded  one  should  have  a  day  of  rest, 

Nor  had  a  doubt  that  nought  was  needed  more, 

To  bring  him  back  as  vigorous  as  before ; 

And  still  he  drooped,  yet  none  saw  danger  there, 

Or  aught  was  needed  but  a  little  care  ; 

But  still  he  drooped,  yet  no  one  deemed  him  ill 

Enough  to  ask  a  kind  physician's  skill ; 

And  still  he  drooped,  till  friendship  thought  it  wise, 

To  call  in  skill  to  counsel  and  advise. 

The  grandsire  came,  and  neighbors  came,  and  still 

None  thought  him  other  than  a  little  ill ; 

But  prudence  whispered,  —  send  the  tidings  home, 

And  let  the  father,  if  he  pleases,  come. 

He  came,  he  saw,  and  looked  the  matter  o'er, 

And  thought  his  boy  would  soon  be  out  once  more  ; 

As  drooping  flowers  need  but  a  little  rain, 

Or  little  sun,  to  bjush  and  bloom  again, 

And  so  he  needed  only  care  and  rest, 

And  in  a  short  time  he'd  be  convalesced ; 

And  so  he  left,  brimful  of  hope  and  joy, 

To  think  no  danger  seemed  to  threat  his  boy; 


OUR     CHARLIE.  125 

And  he  went,  therefore,  to  his  childhood's  home, 
Whe:  e  his  own  sire  was  waiting  him  to  come, 
Intending,  when  that  duty  should  be  done, 
On  his  return,  to  call  and  see  his  son. 
He  went,  he  came,  and,  on  arriving,  said, 
"How  is  my  son?"     "Alas!  your  son  is  dead!" 
"  Dead  ?    God    forbid  "  —  the    stoutest    heart    would 

melt, 

To  feel  that  moment  what  the  father  felt ; 
A  red  bolt  leaping  from  a  cloudless  sky 
Were  not  more  sudden  than  that  he  should  die. 

0  !  how  the  father  staggered  'neath  the  stroke, 
And  how  the  Christian  from  its  mastery  broke  ! 

"  And  but  for  one  sad  thought,"  said  he,  —  "  but  one. 

1  could,  with  rapture,  say,   '  Thy  will  be  done.' 
None  thought  him  sick,  —  himself,  or  friends,  or  I, 
While  at  that  moment  ill  enough  to  die. 

None  thought  him  sick,  and,  therefore,  none  applied 
The  needful  thing,  and  so,  alas  !  he  died. 

"  All  that  I  have,  and  all  expect,  I'd  give, 
If  I  could  know,  '  he'd  a  fair  chance  to  live,' 
'Tis  that  that  kills  me  —  that  that  barbs  the  dart, 
That  now  is  rankling  in  my  bleeding  heart. 
O  !  solve  this  doubt,  and  I'll  be  satisfied, 
Although  the  first-born  of  my  youth  has  died  ; 
I'll  kiss  the  hand  by  which  the  blow  was  given, 


126  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Glad  I  can  feel  my  darling  is  in  heaven. 
But  O  !  these  doubts  the  deepest  anguish  give, 
There  is  a  doubt,  '  he'd  a  fair  chance  to  live.' 
This  wounds  the  wound  inflicted  by  the  loss, 
This  plants  a  cross  within  the  dreadful  cross  ; 
And  if  grace  e'er  can  heal  the  dreadful  sore, 
This  keener  wound  would  rankle  at  its  core  ; 
And  if  it  make  the  cross  more  light  to  bear, 
This  second  cross  will  still  keep  crushing  there/' 

Thus  mourned  the  father,  and  is  mourning  yet, 
That,  "  peradventure,"  he  can  ne'er  forget, 
And  though  time  long  has  gathered  round  the  doubt, 
And  spread  its  mists  and  twilight  hues  about, 
Yet  memory  often  sends  its  vision  through, 
Sees  the  dread  doubt  and  feels  the  woe  anew, 
And  sighs,  "  Alas  !  will  nought  the  assurance  give 
That  my  dear  boy  had  a  fair  chance  to  live  ?  " 

'Tis  ever  thus,  methinks,  'tis  ever  thus, 
When  dear  ones  die,  such  fears  will  torture  us  ; 
Things  that  we  could,  but  did  not,  might  have  proved 
The  very  means  of  saving  those  we  loved ; 
And  things  we  did,  we  often  have  our  fears, 
Were  just  the  ones  that  laid  them  on  their  biers. 
Each  may  be  true  in  all  its  fulness,  still 
We're  but  the  agents  carrying  out  His  will ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  127 

The  rock  on  which  joy's  vessel  should  be  wrecked 

Is  conscious  guilt  in  action  or  neglect ; 

The  tender  conscience  feels  the  keenest  stings 

From  what  the  common  deems  indifferent  things  ; 

The  common  conscience  deems  the  guiltless  man, 

Who  thinks  and  acts  as  wisely  as  he  can ; 

The  tender  feels  the  guilt,  if  any,  lies 

Back  of  the  act  in  not  becoming  wise  ; 

And  where's  the  man  beneath  yon  azure  sky, 

'Gainst  whom  this  charge  does  not  most  justly  lie  ? 

Few  are  the  parents  but  would  do  their  best, 

To  save  the  dear  one  nestling  in  their  breast ; 

And  fewer  still  who,  in  the  retrospect, 

Find  no  wrong  done,  no  blunder,  no  neglect. 

The  most  devoted,  angel-hearted  one 

Sees  most  his  faults  and  duties  left  undone  : 

The  polished  surface  shows  the  stain  or  spot, 

Where  the  unpolished  and  the  dim  would  not. 

Sin  always  seems  to  its  committer's  eyes 

Of  magnitude  inversely  as  its  size  ; 

The  little  boy  at  the  first  moral  stain, 

Feels  the  intensest  agony  and  pain  ; 

When  travelling  further  in  the  downward  road, 

Though  huge  as  Atlas,  he  feels  not  the  load  ; 

The  road  to  guilt  grows  steeper  by  degrees, 

Till  greatest  loads  are  borne  with  greatest  ease, 

Till  when  a  veteran  in  the  fiend's  employ, 


128  OUR    CHARLIE. 

He  gets  from  sin  his  only  thrills  of  joy. 
Ah  !  weeping  father,  let  it  soothe  the  smart, 
That  these,  your  fears,  denote  an  honest  heart. 

Ah!  not  a  day, — nay,  scarce  an  hour,  has  passed, 
Since  our  dear  Charlie  gently  breathed  his  last, 
But  thought,  unbidden,  in  our  bosom  starts, 
And  sadly  whispers  to  our  aching  hearts, — 
Had  this  been  done,  or  that  been  left  undone, 
You  might  e'en  no\v  have  had  a  darling  son  ; 
'Tis  this  makes  sorrow's  fountains  overflow, 
'Tis  this  adds  anguish  to  our  cup  of  woe. 

Faith  bids  us  bear  and  kiss  affliction's  rod, 
And  says,  —  be  still,  it  is  the  will  of  God. 
Has  it  a  power  to  hush  the  dreadful  thought 
Of  fancied  errors  we  ourselves  have  wrought  ? 

C? 

Has  it  a  balm  to  soothe  the  soul  that  aches, 

From  its  unmeant  omissions  and  mistakes  ? 

O  !  yes  ;  faith  groups  them  to  the  chariot  given 

To  waft  our  dear  one  safely  up  to  heaven  ; 

But  if  the  sentry  falls  asleep  or  strays, 

And  the  grim  monster  enters  in  and  slays, 

No  common  faith,  e'en  with  its  heavenliest  arts, 

Can  soothe  the  sorrows  of  the  guilty  hearts. 

Old  time  may  soothe,  —  it  never  can  efface 

What  conscious  guilt  on  memory's  page  may  trace, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  129 

And  God  forgive,  although  the  sinner  may 
Forgive  himself  not,  till  his  dying  day. 

O  !  my  dear  boy,  the  fear  will  sometimes  start, 
That  'twas  our  fault  that  severed  us  apart,  - 
Some  well-meant  act  or  some  unmeant  neglect 
Were    the    dread    rocks    on    which    our    joys    were 

wrecked ; 

But  thou,  boy,  know'st  we  had  been  glad  to  give 
Our  lives,  our  all,  if  thou  couldst  only  live  ; 
But  'tis  a  sorrow  we  expect  to  have, 
Till  we  lie  down  oblivious  in  the  grave. 

Well,  'tis  no  matter,  sorrow  may  annoy, 
'Tis  not  so  dangerous  in  this  world  as  joy  ; 
The  whitest  robes  that  spirits  wear  above, 
Are  made  of  sorrow  by  the  hand  of  love, 
And  many  happiest  floated  to  the  skies 
On  sorrow's  tear-drops  and  affliction's  sighs. 

Then  let  us  weep  and  think  about  our  boy, 
No  tears  of  ours  shall  mar  another's  joy ; 
We'll  weep  alone,  and  tell  our  griefs  the  while, 
And  with  our  friends  we'll  always  wear  a  smile. 
Or  if  our  sorrows  will  peep  out  beneath, 
Out  of  those  smiles  we'll  make  an  extra  wreath  ; 
We'll  speak,  if  speaking  of  our  little  one, 

9 


130  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Of  something  cunning  by  him  said  or  done  ; 
And  while  conversing,  we'll  l>e  cheerful  even, 
And  speak  of  him  as  our  sweet  boy  in  heaven, 
And  tell  how  much  it  swells  our  present  joy, 
To  think  we  have  had  such  a  darling  boy. 

The  burdened  heart,  though  often  it  conceals, 
Sometimes  betrays  the  sorrow  that  it  feels  ; 
Grief,  all  unconscious  of  its  tears  and  sighs, 
Tells  its  tale  oft  to  other  people's  eyes, 
And  one  sad  spirit  midst  the  gay  and  glad, 
May,  without  meaning,  make  the  circle  sad. 

When  we  laid  Charlie  in  our  funeral  bowers. 
The  sympathetic  mingled  tears  with  ours, 
And  friendship  kindly  gathered  at  our  side, 
And  shared  the  griefs  we  had  not  power  to  hide  ; 
And  'twas  a  solace  mourners  only  know, 
And  many  a  pang  was  taken  from  our  woe. 
But  the  first  gush,  when  sorrow  calls  for  aid, 
Has  passed  away,  and  the  due  offering  made  ; 
Henceforth,  our  hearts  must,  as  the  woe's  our  own. 
Know  their  own  sorrows  and  must  bear  alone. 

Then  let  us  weep,  —  it  shall  be  silent  grief, 

Its  history's  written  on  no  open  leaf. 

We'll  try  our  best,  no  thrill  of  woe  shall  dart 


OUR    CHARLIE.  131 

Outside  ourselves,  to  pierce  another's  heart ; 
And  in  all  circles  it  shall  be  our  care, 
No  gloom  shall  enter  from  our  presence  there. 
Grief  seldom  injures,  from  its  normal  flow, 
And  tears  but  smooth  the  rugged  path  of  woe  ; 
They  never  injure,  ne'er  inflict  a  wrong, 
Save  when  intruders  where  they  don't  belong; 
But  where  they  do,  they're  angels  in  disguise, 
That  bring  down  manna  kindly  from  the  skies, 
And  although  weeping  may  endure  a  night, 
Joy  comes  in  bounding  with  the  morning  light. 

Although  we  weep  till  we  with  Charlie  sleep, 
'Twill  do  no  injury,  'twill  do  good,  to  weep; 
The  danger  comes  not,  our  own  histories  tell, 
From  loving  earth  too  little,  but  too  well. 

We  know"  Heaven  has,  within  e'en  earthly  bowers, 

Set  all  along  the  purest,  sweetest  flowers  ; 

Home  has  its  charms,  though  of  one  source  bereft, 

And  little  ones  are  in  its  precincts  left, 

And  sure  as  Phoebus  rises  in  the  east, 

We  have  an  oftener  than  a  daily  feast  ; 

And  heartiest  thanks  we,  to  our  Father,  give, 

That  He  still  lets  us  with  our  dear  ones  live ; 

But  O  !  methinks,  when  looking  down  below, 

He  says,  "  Come  up,  'twill  be  no  cross  to  go." 


132  OUR    CHARLIE. 


THE    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

I  HAVE  two  friends  —  I  feel  they're  friendly  yet, 

Although  for  years  we  have  not  even  met, 

The  nicest  culture,  both  of  heart  and  mind, 

Has  made  them  genial,  erudite,  refined; 

Their     home    is    decked    with    beauty,     tastG,    and 

thought, 

And  made  by  them  a  most  enchanting  spot, 
And  social  life  gets  many  and  many  a  gem, 
And  many  a  thrill  of  purest  joy  from  them. 
In  public  life,  not  giddy  and  elate, 
He  served  with  honor  his  old  native  state, 
And  that  old  state,  out  of  her  loyal  hosts, 
Called  him  to  many  of  her  highest  posts  ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  consenting  to  embark 
On  any  duty,  always  left  his  mark  ; 
And  like  a  Goldsmith,  with  a  skill  inborn, 
Attempted  nothing  he  did  not  adorn. 

She  was  a  lady, — not  by  courtesy  one, 

The  fact  beamed  out  like  sunshine  from  the  sun  ; 

Intelligence  from  every  feature  beamed, 

And  the  soul's  magic  through  each  avenue  streamed  ; 

In  form  and  feature,  act  and  speech  and  air, 

The  graces  clustered  sweetly  everywhere  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  133 

For  culture  seemed  to  shape  each  thought  that  stirred, 
And  then  to  shape  each  pure  expressive  word  ; 
And  taste,  oiitspringing  from  the  cultured  soul, 
Shed  its  bland  influence  and  adorned  the  whole  ; 
And  harmless  humor,  in  its  merry  play, 
Tinged  e'en  the  sombre  often  with  the  gay, 
And  gave  to  converse,  when  she  bore  a  part, 
So  sweet  a  zest,  it  always  reached  the  heart. 

And  they  were  Christians,  both  the  man  and  wife,  — 
Pure  Christians,  both  in  theory  and  in  life. 
He  was  devout,  in  word  and  thought  and  air, 
Without  one  tinge  of  the  ascetic  there  ; 
She,  ever  smiling,  shed  good  cheer  about, 
Without  one  glimmer  of  the  undevout. 

Young  spirits  flitted  from  yon  azure  dome, 

And  gayly  lighted  in  this  happy  home  : 

One  came  and  carolled  many  a  roundelay, 

Knit  to  their  hearts,  and  then  it  flew  away. 

Another  came,  a  little  cherub  thing, 

To  chant  the  lays  the  first  had  ceased  to  sing. 

Love,  writhing  yet  with  sad  bereavement's  smart, 

Took  the  young  comer  to  its  opening  heart ; 

And  when  at  length  the  new-formed  ties  had  twined, 

And  the  new  cherub  in  its  heart  was  shrined, 

The  little  stranger  sang  its  farewell  strain, 

And  left  home  writhinc  with  its  woes  a<iain. 


134  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Another  caine,  pure  as  a  flake  of  snow, 

Ere  sorrow's  tears  had  ceased,  alas  !  to  flow. 

Joy's  merry  pulses  now  began  to  play, 

Before,  alas  !  poor  sorrow's  died  away ; 

The  parent  feels  the  noblest,  brightest  son 

Can't  fill  the  void  left  by  the  buried  one  ; 

The  soul  ne'er  makes  a  harmony  half  so  fine 

As  when  joy's  notes  and  sorrow's  notes  combine  ; 

Nor  lives  a  life  so  lovely  and  so  sweet, 

As  when  the  two,  to  check  each  other,  meet. 

The  loveliest  picture  artist  ever  made, 

Had  not  all  light,  but  mingling  light  and  shade  ; 

So,  to  my  friends,  should  this  fresh  love-bud  stay, 

And  bless  their  household  to  their  dying  day, 

The  little  ones,  whose  stay  was  made  so  brief, 

Would  ever  live  on  faithful  memory's  leaf, 

And  so  life's  future,  onward  to  its  even, 

Will  be  made  up  of  mingled  earth  and  heaven  ; 

And  when  well  weighed  according  to  their  worth, 

Heaven  in  the  end  will  swallow  up  the  earth. 

O !    how   they   prayed   that   this   young    bud   might 

bloom 

In  adult  sweetness  ere  it  reached  the  tomb  ! 
And  how  they  prayed  that  by  this  blessing  aAved 
They  might  more  wholly  give  themselves  to  God  ! 


OUR    CHARLIE.  135 

And  that  their  love  for  this  fresh  blessing  given 
Be  so  much  added  to  their  Sire's  in  heaven  ! 
O  !  how  they  watched,  each  mental  bud  to  find, 
From  the  rich  mould  of  childhood's  opening  mind, 
Or  to  behold  the  tender  outshoots  start, 
Warmed  into  being  by  the  virgin  heart ! 
And  how  harmonious,  more  and  more  each  day, 
The  soul's  machinery  seemed  to  work  and  play  ! 
And  how  they  found,  as  loving  parents  can, 
Proofs  that  the  boy  would  live  and  be  a  man  ! 
Two  little  ones,  that  God  had  kindly  given, 
Just  won  our  hearts  and  then  went  up  to  heaven, 
God  still  is  good,  —  He  sends  this  little  bird,  — 
So  sweet,  so  lovely  —  O  !  He'll  spare  the  third  ; 
But  few  the  homes  where  death  has  never  come, 
And  from  the  circle  has  not  taken  some ; 
And  fewer  yet  where,  at  the  Master's  call, 
The  monster  comes  and  rudely  slays  them  all. 
Besides  how  health  in  every  feature  lives  ! 
And  grace  and  beauty,  strength  and  vigor,  gives  : 
And  every  day  parental  visions  can 
See  fresh  precursors  of  the  coming  man,  — 
Some  gift  or  power  that  Nature  would  not  give, 
If  'twere  not  meant  the  little  one  should  live  ; 
And  when  the  boy's  a  little  rough  and  rude, 
He  feels  the  augury  for  long  life  is  good. 


183  OUR    CHARLIE. 

So  thes6  fond  parents  watched,  by  day  and  night, 
For  each  new  augury  that  could  give  them  light, 
And  found  enough,  they  almost  thought,  to  give 
The  sweet  assurance  that  their  boy  would  live  ; 
They'd  minds  too  strong  to  think  they  could  not  lie. 
And  their  boy  could  not,  like  the  others,  die,  — 
And  hearts  too  loving  not  to  hope,  alas  ! 
That  signs  show  sometimes  what  will  come  to  pass. 

'Twas  not  because  he  was  their  only  son, 
He  seemed  so  lovely  and  so  bright  an   one  ; 
Each  mental  outgrowth  and  each  moral  shoot, 
E'en  from  its  birthday,  bore  the  sweetest  fruit ; 
And  his  gay  physique,  at  its  birth,  began 
The  perfect  model  of  the  future  man, 
And  they  said  sometimes,  Can  the  thought  be  true 
That  this  dear  boy  is  given  us  for  the  two  ? 

The  one  who's  felt  the  anguish  of  the  smart, 
Caused  by  the  blow  that  sunders  heart  from  heart, 
Will  fear  and  tremble  to  his  journey's  end, 
Lest,  like  the  first,  a  second  should  descend. 
All  know  their  dear  ones  may  be  torn  away, 
The  mourner  feels,  as  well  as  knows,  they  may. 

And  so  they  knew,  not  only  knew,  but  felt, 
Their  snow-flake  might  at  any  moment  melt ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  137 

But  as  "  All's  well  "  the  present  shouted  out, 
And  the  gay  future  echoed  back  the  shout, 
The  loving  parents,  captured  with  the  spell, 
Joined  in  the  chorus  and  the  shout  "  All's  well ;  " 
For  with  the  cultured,  howe'er  trained  and  taught, 
The  wish  is  often  "  father  to  the  thought," 
And  wisest  minds,  in  many  a  trusting  hour, 
Like  Samson,  find  that  they  have  lost  their  power. 
And  so  they  slept,  —  the  husband  and  the  wife,  — 
For  lo !  their  dear  one  had  a  charmed  life. 

And  just  such  quiet  in  each  parent's  breast 

Had  lighted  there,  and  built  its  downy  nest ; 

And  doubt  and  fear,  by  many  a  false  alarm, 

Had  lost  the  power  of  doing  good  or  harm. 

And  while  they  strove  with  every  power  and  thought, 

To  teach  their  darling  as  he  should  be  taught, 

And  tried  to  make  him,  by  the  surest  plan, 

A  hearty  Christian  and  a  useful  man  ; 

Just  then  disease,  insidious  demon,  came, 

And,  like  a  vampire,  lighted  on  the  frame,  — 

At  first  so  gentler  than  a  Zephyr's  breath, 

Love's    eye,    though    piercing,    scarcely    dreamed    of 

death.    .»  I 

They  watched  for  days,  watched  every  changing  hue, 
And  saw  each  symptom  as  it  rose  and  grew, 
Till,  as  if  with  a  new  suspicion  caiight, 


138  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Each  looked  as  if  to  read  the  other's  thought ; 
Nor  dared  to  whisper  what  they  really  felt,  — 
That  their  pure  snow-flake  was  about  to  melt. 
God  spare  our  boy  ;  O,  spare  our  darling  son  ! 
Yet  not  as  I  will,  but  Thy  will  be  done. 

God    heard   their   prayer,  —  took    their   young   love- 
bud  home, 

And  bade  the  parents  to  prepare  to  come. 
He  heard  their  prayer  and  answered  it  full  soon, 
He  took  the  child  and  gave  a  heavenlier  boon  ; 
And,  to  prepare  them  for  a  home  of  joy, 
Gave  them  an  angel  for  a  helpless  boy. 

O  !  how  God  watches  o'er  His  ransomed  ones, 

And  wisely  chastens  whom  He  calls  His  sons  ; 

And  when  He  wants  a  polished  stone  to  place 

In  His  fair  temple  of  abounding  grace, 

He  smites  again,  and  puts  them  where  their  hearts 

Shall  feel  the  friction  adverse  life  imparts  : 

A  moment  only  Christians  will  despond, 

Ere  they  will  see  a  brighter  scene  beyond. 

So  the  fond  parents,  staggering  'neath  the  loss, 

Soon  saw  light  beaming  from  the  dreadful  cross. 

How  sweet  the  magic  that  was  wont  to  run 
Through  the  sweet  ties  that  bound  them  to  their  son  ! 


OUR    CHARLIE.  139 

'Tis  sweeter  now  a  thousand  times  for  this, 
The  ties  reach  now  to  realms  of  perfect  bliss. 

Had  their  boy  gone   to  some  fair  sunny  isle, 
Where  they  would  meet  him  in  a  little  while, 
They,  night  and  day,  would  heartily  prepare, 
To  get  all  ready  for  the  journey  there  ; 
And  now  they'll  try,  with  ardor  and  delight, 
To  get  all  ready  for  the  upward  flight. 
God  saw  how  hearty  was  the  effort  made, 
And  so  vouchsafed  to  grant  them  further  aid. 

Wealth  was  not  theirs,  yet  fortune  sometimes  smiled, 

As  if  to  make  him  its  adopted  child, 

And  hope  would  sometimes  whisper  to  the  mind, 

That  fortune  might  be  in  their  future  kind, 

And  it  may  be  its  siren  voice  was  heard, 

And    touched   their    hearts    with    many    a    flattering 

word. 

God  saw  the  danger,  greater  day  by  day, 
And,  like  a  cobweb,  swept  it  all  away ; 
Then  how  their  hearts  rose  up  to  yonder  height, 
With  scarce  a  mote  to  check  their  upward  flight ! 
And  just  as  tourists  to  old  Windsor  haste, 
To  see  the  scenes  of  splendor  and  of  taste, 
And  ere  admitted,  walk  the  grounds  about, 
Or  view  the  splendors  of  the  court  without, — 


140  OUR    CHARLIE. 

All  things  that  please  them  are  the  things  akin 
To  the  rich  splendors  they  will  see  within  ;  - 
So  while  these  mourners  for  admittance  wait 
Among  God's  works,  this  side  the  pearly  gate, 
The  objects  now  they  think  ahout  and  love 
Are  those  most  kindred  to  the  ones  above. 

And  were  they  happy?     Never  more  than  then, 
When  their  hearts  felt  in  all  its  force,   Amen! 
When  having  found  earth's  dearest  objects  riven, 
They  found  it  easier  to  mount  up  to  heaven,  — 
They'd  fewer  ties  to  bind  them  down  to  this, 
They'd  more  to  draw  them  to  a  home  of  bliss. 

Are  they  still  happy?     They'll  the  answer  say, 
Who're  with  them,  —  see  them,  —  hear  them  day  by 

day : 

Had  fortune  still  upon  their  pathway  smiled, 
And  God  had  never  taken  wealth  or  child, 
A  life  of  ease  its  meshes  might  have  twined, 
Till  rust  had  spoiled  his  highly-cultured  mind, 
And  gorgeous  luxury  with  Circean  art, 
If  not  transformed,  might  yet  have  stained  his  heart ; 
But  now  the  young  flock  to  his  classic  seat, 
And  drink  pure  manna,  sitting  at  his  feet. 
Thus  he  beloved,  for  his  assistance  shown, 
Lights  up  their  minds  by  flashes  from  his  own, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  1-11 

And  from  the  richness  of  his  heart,  imparts 
His  moral  sweetness  to  their  youthful  hearts ; 
And  she  a  magic  scatters  o'er  the  whole, 
From  the  o'erflowing  sweetness  of  her  soul ; 
Thus  twofold  joy  upon  their  board  is  spread : 
they're  feeding  others  and  themselves  are  fed, 
And  while  imparting  unto  others  light, 
They  keep  their  own  souls  active,  pure,  and  bright. 

Are  they  unhappy?     Go,  apply  the  test, 
And  tell  me  where  there  is  a  home  more  blest ; 
The  Hill  of  Zion  yields  unnumbered  sweets, 
This  side  her  fields,  this  side  her  golden  streets, 
And  they've  the  promise  in  that  happy  home, 
Of  both  this  life  and  that  which  is  to  come. 

This  is  a  scene  to  which  I  often  turn, 
It  has  a  lesson  that  I  fain  would  learn  ; 
God  grant  we  may  the  lesson's  bidding  do, 
Without  the  facts  to  prove  the  truth  anew. 
Experience  is,  as  all  things  serve  to  show, 
The  best  instructor  we  can  have  below, 
And  wise  is  he  who  his  experience  reads, 
And  every  lesson  that  it  teaches,   heeds ; 
But  wisest  he  who  studies  not  alone 
His  own,  but  others'  added  to  his  own. 


142  OUR    CHARLIE. 

There  is  one  question  I  can  ne'er  conceal, 
Why  was  I  spared  one  dreadful  blow  they  feel? 
I  know  Religion  does  more  sweetly  shine 
Within  their  bosoms,  than  it  does  in  mine. 
I  know  it  well,  and  say  it  with  a  sigh, 
They  live  far  higher  above  the  world  than  I. 
Why,  then,  that  blow  that  was  by  Wisdom  dealt, 
Unfelt  by  me,  by  those  fond  parents  felt  ? 
Perhaps  Omniscience,  looking  from  on  high, 
Saw  they  could  bear  it  better  far  than  I, 
Or  that  the  picture  would  be  more  divine, 
Wrought  in  their  bosoms,  than  if  wrought  in  mine ; 
And  yet,  alas !  whate'er  the  cause  may  be, 
'Tis  naught  that  wakens  any  pride  in  me. 


THE    ENGLISH    FAMILY. 

THERE  is  a  good  man  whom  I  love  to  meet, 

As  I  do,  daily,  in  the  busy  street, 

And  have,  sometimes,  when  'twas  within  my  power' 

Been  to  his  home  to  spend  a  social  hour, 

And  never,  never  have  I  met  him  yet, 

But  I  felt  better  after  I  had  met; 

He  is  my  senior,  yet  to  judge  him  by 

His  buoyant  heart,  he  is  as  young  as  I, 

And  till  my  Charlie  took  my  heart  from  me, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  143 

I  was,  at  heart,  a  younger  man  than  he; 

I  never  meet  the  good  man  in  his  walks, 

I  never  listen  to  him  as  he   talks, 

But  I  feel  better,  feel  instructed  even, 

And  feel  like  lifting  my  sad  thoughts  to  Heaven. 

I   never  saw  him  when  he  seemed  to  wear 
A  sombre  aspect  or  a  gloomy  air  ; 
Smiles  always  play  on  his  expressive  face, 
Which  sorrow's  self  is  powerless  to  erase  ; 
Yet  one  can  see,  both  by  his  words  and  mien, 
That  he's  seen  sorrows  and  knows  what  they  mean. 
That  queenly  isle,  by  all  things  noble  decked, 
We  sometimes  scold,  but  oftener  far  respect, 
And  things  full  often  in  time's  course  unfold, 
That  prove  we  have  abundant  cause  to  scold,  — 
That  queenly  isle,  he  loves,  adores  her  yet, 
And  that  fond  mother  he  can  ne'er  forget, 
Her  honors  often,  often  have  been  shed, 
Upon  his  noble,  but  untitled  head, 
And  all  her  glories,  in  his  heart  inwove, 
Claim  even  yet  the  incense  of  his  love. 

In  early  manhood,  with  a  hopeful  breast, 
He'd  seen  afar  this  empire  of  the  West, 
And  hither  came,  an  English  home  to  find 

7  o 

Akin  to  that  which  he  had  left  behind. 


144  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Tis  sweet  to  see  how  his  old  English  love 

Is  iii  the  web  of  Western  progress  wove  ; 

He  sees  our  faults  perhaps  more  keen  than  we, 

But  sees  our  merits  plain  as  we  can  see, 

And  when  there's  discord  that  Avill  rise  sometimes 

Between  his  native  and  adopted  climes, 

'Tis  sweet  to  see  IIOAV  his  large  heart  expands, 

And  takes  within  it  both  the  rival  lands  ; 

He  knows,  though  two,  the  nations  are  but  twins, 

He  lauds  their  virtues,  but  reproves  their  sins  ; 

And  if  war  should,  between  the  nations,  spring, 

And  stern  defiance  at  each  other  fling, 

To  fight  'gainst  either,  he'd  be  very  loath, 

But  yet  I  know  he'd  gladly  die  for  both. 

The  hand  of  fortune,  by  his  magic,  thrilled, 

With  richest  gifts  his  spacious  coffers  filled  ; 

And  to  the  island  o'er  the  stormy  main 

He  soon  returned  to  seek  sweet  home  again. 

There,  with  a  mind  well  cultured,  pure,  and  chast<\ 

His  was  a  home  of  elegance  and  taste, 

Where  fortune's  sons  in  social  life  could  blend, 

And  stern  misfortune's  always  find  a  friend, 

And  where  wealth  never  breathed  a  word  or  thought, 

That  would  set  harshly  in  the  poor  man's  cot ; 

And  should  misfortune,  armed  with  vengeance,  come, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  145 

And  sweep  all  bare  in  that  delightful  home, 

No  retrospect  in  wealth's  career  would  plant 

A  single  sorrow  in  the  home  of  want. 

God  looked  from  heaven,  and    dearly  loved    to   shed 

His  choicest  blessings  daily  on  his  head ; 

His  home  was  sweet  with  wealth  all  strown  about, 

Would  it  be  still  as  sweet  a  home  without  ? 

And  so  God  tried,  —  He  swept  away  his  wealth, 

Ana  left  him  nought  but  honor,  hope,  and  health. 

Farewell,  dear  England,  fare  thee  well,  sweet  home  ; 

Land  of  the  West,  to  thee  again  I  come ; 

I'd  gladly  linger  on  my  native  shore, 

Until,  alas  !  life's  fitful  dream  is  o'er, 

But  duty  becks,  and  who  her  voice  obey 

Find  hers  a  thorny,  but  a  flowery  way, 

And  that  her  pathway  always  leads  to  bowers 

Bedecked  with  thornless  and  immortal  flowers. 

And  now  old  ocean,  with  its  waves  and  foam, 
Divides  his  island  from  his  Western  home  , 
He's  left  the  first,  and  stormy  ocean  past, 
He,  with  his  dear  ones,  nestles  in  the  last ; 
While  round  him  one  her  white  arms  sweetly  flings, 
And  like  the  ivy  round  her  old  oak  clings, 
While,  like  a  shoot  in  all  her  virgin  growth, 
Another  clings  and  twines  around  them  both. 
10 


146  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Ah  !  happy  trio,  keen  misfortune's  smart 
Has  but  disturbed  the  pulses  of  the  heart ; 
E'en  now  those  gay  and  fluttering  pulses  beat, 
If  not  as  boisterous,  yet,  methinks,  more  sweet. 

One  son,  their  only,  now  just  stepping  o'er 
The  threshold  set  at  manhood's  opening  door, 
Ah1  lit  with  hope's  and  health's  bewitching  smile. 
Still  stayed  and  dwelt  within  his  native  isle  ; 
A  boy  of  promise,  all  were  wont  to  say, 
Who'll  make  his  mark  upon  the  world  some  day, 
And  ere  at  last  he  lays  life's  sceptre  down, 
He'll  set  some  gems  in  virtue's  earthly  crown, 
And  if  signs  fail  not,  he  will  write  his  name 
On  the  bright  scroll  of  honor  and  of  fame. 

If  there  was  one  more  fondled  than  the  rest, 
In  the  soft  down  of  that  domestic  nest, 
It  was  that  boy  so  cultured,  so  refined, 
So  pure  in  heart  and  so  acute  in  mind. 

* 

The  boy,  far  oftener  than  the  girl,  will  get, 
I  scarce  know  why,  to  be  a  household  pet, 
And  girls  themselves  take  hold  with  heart-felt  joy 
And  help  install  him  as  the  petted  boy, 
And  home  is  never  quite  so  full  of  bliss, 
As  when,  within  it,  there's  a  boy  to  kiss. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  147 

True,  'tis  a  sight  not  seldom  to  be  met, 
That  some  sweet  girl  is  made  the  household  pet, 
And  yet,  methinks,  more  often  home  elects, 
As  household  pet,  one  of  the  sterner  sex. 

Parental  love,  like  other  loves  on  earth, 
Is  gauged  not  always  by  the  object's  worth; 
'Tis  not  unfrequent  stronger  for  the  boys, 
Whom  vice  debases  and  whom  crime  destroys ; 
And  pets  are  seated  on  their  household  thrones, 
Not  most  or  oftenest  from  the  brightest  ones, 
Nor  yet  because  the  little  ones  can  boast, 
They're    thought    the    brightest    or    are    loved    the 

most. 

Not  that  dear  group  round  that  domestic  hearth 
Loved  that  boy  thus,  —  they  loved  him  for  his  worth, 
Not  as  a  pet,  to  frolic  with  and  play, 
To  kill  the  moments  of  the  passing  day, 
Not  as  a  little  plaything  of  a  son, 
To  fill  up  ennui  with  a  little  fun  ; 
But  the  sound  granite,  solid,  polished,  dressed, 
Where  manhood's  structure  will  securely  rest, 
The  little  tree  that,  with  a  vigorous  root, 
Begins,  e'en  now,  to  bear  the  sweetest  fruit, 
And  one  that  will  in  life's  career  be  found 
No  barren  plant,  no  cumberer  of  the  ground. 


148  OUR    CHARLIE. 

A  steamer  came,  —  and  each  that  used  to  come 
Brought  them  fresh  tidings  from  their  English  home. 
O  !  how  their  hearts  went  fluttering  at  the  thought 
Of  what  the  tidings  this  fresh  steamer  brought ; 
The  dear  ones  there,  —  are  they  alive  and  well? 
Wait  for  the  letters,  they'll  the  answer  tell. 
They  broke  the  seal,  and  read,  delighted,  till 
It  said,  "  Dear  Willie  is  a  little  ill, 
But  do  not  worry,  for  the  case  is  plain, 
We'll  write  next  steamer  that  he's  well  again." 
The  steamer  came  ;  the  letters  came  and  said, 
"  Dear  father,  mother,  sister,  Willie's  dead  ; 
His  last  faint  prayer  was  uttered  for  the  three, 
So  dear,  so  loving,  now  beyond  the  sea, 
And  the  last  thoughts  that  faintly  struggled  through 
The  gathering  twilight,  seemed  to  be  of  you. 

God  bless  the  father,  —  so  his  dear  ones  said,  — 
'Twill  kill  him  when  he  hears  that  Willie's  dead ; 
Ah  !  'twas  not  so,  —  though  heart-broke   at  the  loss. 
He  bent  submissive  'neath  the  heavy  cross  ; 
God  had  been  with  him  and  prepared  his  heart, 
And  grace  now  came  and  kindly  soothed  the  smart, 
And  faith  so  sweetly  told  him  that  his  boy 
Was  roving  now  in  realms  of  heavenly  joy, 
That  although  cheered  when  others  came  to  cheer, 
And  soothed  at  Friendship's  sympathetic  tear, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  149 

He  needed  naught  to  soothe  his  stricken  breast, 
Nor  aught  that  might  give  comfort  to  the  rest. 

'Twas  sweet  to  see  the  good,  kind  father  try 
To  wipe  the  tear  from  each  co-weeper's  eye  ; 
To  see  him  sit  and  on  the  virgin  sheet, 

O  *  f 

Write  down  his  thoughts,  so  gentle,  kind,  and  sweet, 

So  full  of  comfort  and  so  full  of  joy 

About  dear  Willie,  his  now  sainted  boy, 

And  how  delightful  'twas  to  think  that  they 

Should  be  with  Willie,  at  no  distant  day, 

And  how,  perhaps,  the  little  boy  was  given, 

To  gain  their  hearts  and  draw  them  up  to  heaven  : 

Thus  would  the  good  man  often  write  and  say, 

As  if  he  had  no  cross  to  bear  but  they. 

There's  many  an  oasis  in  this  desert  earth, 

Where  pleasures  spring  of  most  surpassing  Avorth. 

The  good  man  finds,  from  earth's  intensest  ills, 

The  sweetest  nectar  of  delight  distils ; 

The  bad  man  finds  from  earth's  best  blessings,  flow 

The  keenest  anguish  and  intensest  woe ; 

And  most  men  lingering  at  some  point  between, 

Find  earth  to  be  a  very  checkered  scene. 

The  bitterest  sorrows  get  their  bitterest  gall 

Out  of  the  bosoms  into  which  they  fall ; 

And  if  'tis  joy  that  out  of  sorrow  starts, 


150  OUR    CHARLIE. 

It  gets  its  sweetness  out  of  human  hearts. 
The  spark  produces  quite  a  different  scene, 
That  strikes  the  mountain  and  the  magazine  ; 
And  whether  sorrow  be  a  good  or  ill, 
Bides  the  decree  of  the  recipient's  will. 
Vice  comes  as  powerless  to  the  virtuous  mind, 
As  rays  of  sunlight  falling  on  the  blind, 
And  holy  thoughts  dropped  down  from  paradise, 
Would  be  rank  poison  to  the  heart  of  vice, 
And  virtuous  hearts  in  their  divine  employ, 
Get  out  of  all  things,  howe'er  saddening,  joy, 
And  feast  far  oftener,  thankful  and  devout, 
On  things  within  them  than  on  things  without. 

Thus  'tis  no  marvel  that  the  good  man's  home 

Is  the  bright  spot  where  gladness  loves  to  come  ; 

Although  not  wealth,  with  its  attendant  care, 

They  yet  possess  sufficient  and  to  spare, 

And  if  one  sorrow  in  their  bosoms  live, 

'Tis  only  this,  —  tliat  they've  no  more  to  give. 

Go  to  his  home,  —  you'll  see  it,  at  a  glance, 
That  'tis  a  home  of  taste  and  eleo-ance, 

c5 

Not  grand  and  gorgeous,  as  the  wealthy  boor 

Piles  up  his  stuff  to  prove  he  is  not  poor, 

But  such  as  people  of  refinement  feel 

Makes  home  bright,  cheerful,  pleasant,  and  genteel 


OUR    CHARLIE.  151 

Books  find  an  entrance,  of  the  choicest  kinds, 

And  then  beam  forth  like  sunbeams  from  their  minds ; 

And  knowledge  written  and  unwritten  comes, 

And  finds  apt  scholars  in  this  best  of  homes ; 

And  social  converse  is  all  brightly  lit 

With  scintillations  of  his  sense  and  wit ; 

And  there's  an  altar  where  their  pure  hearts  leave 

Religion's  offerings  every  morn  and  eve. 

[  did  not  know  the  pleasant  group  before 

The  shipwreck  came,  and  Willie  was  110  more, 

And  therefore  know  not,  if  before  it,  they 

Were  the  same  joyful  spirits  of  to-dav  ; 

And  yet  I  doubt  not  but  in  heart  and  mind 

They  were  as  gentle,  affable,  and  kind, 

But  as  the  rose  out  of  the  driving  storm, 

Gets  sweeter  sweetness  and  a  lovelier  form, 

So  but  of  sorrow's  almost  poisoned  bowl, 

The  little  group  gained  many  a  grace  of  soul, 

And  one  who'd  known  them  in  the  days  whilom 

Would  say  their  present  is  a  happier  home. 

And  since  I've  felt  how  human  hearts  can  ache, 

Until  they  feel  as  if  about  to  break, 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  his  heart  was  rent 

When  sad  affliction's  thunderbolts  were  sent, 

And  that  whenever  sorrow  is  in  view, 

'Tis  not  with  one  heart,  but  he  feels  with  two. 


152  OUR    CHARLIE. 

When  Charlie  died,  who  always  loved  to  greet 
The  kind,  good  man,  whene'er  they  chanced  to  meet, 
And  when  the  tidings  entered  through  his  door, 
That  his  young  friend  would  never  greet  him  more, 
He  seized  his  pen,  and,  like  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Sent  his  heart-breathings  to  combine  with  ours  ; 
And  so,  in  harmony,  as  they  came  along, 
They  soothed  our  sorrows  sweetly  as  a  song. 

0  !  sweet  the  balm,  the  sympathizing  heart 
Pours  in  the  breast  that  feels  affliction's  smart ; 
A  kindly  word  costs  nothing  to  bestow, 

But  may  take  many  a  bitter  pang  from  woe. 

"  Poor   Willie    died,  —  Have    you   been    blessed    for 

that  ?  " 

Said  I,  as  we  in  social  converse  sat. 
"  O  !  yes"  -said  he,  ('twas  an  emphatic  yes,~) 
"  'Twas  a  remembrance  sent  to  me  to  bless  ; 
I'm  sometimes  glad,  sometimes  '  exultant '  even, 
That  my  dear  Willie  is  a  saint  in  heaven. 
Though  dread  the  blow  that  sundered  us  in  twain, 

1  would  not  dare  to  call  him  back  ao-ain  : 

C*  ' 

I'm  now,  sweet  thought,  at  life's  dim  afternoon, 
And  shall  rejoin  my  dear,  dear  Willie  soon; 
Things  that  looked  dark,  look  now  no  longer  dim, 
For  I  live  better  when  I  think  of  him  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  155 

And  if  I'm  saved,  I  shall  both  feel  and  know, 
How  much  I'm  debtor  to  that  boy  and  blow." 

This  is  the  story,  doubt  it  if  you  choose, 

Would  it  were  carolled  by  a  loftier  Muse  ; 

Yet  howe'er  rude,  unskilful,  and  uncouth, 

One  thing  rely  on,  —  'tis  the  sober  truth. 

I  think  it  over,  write  on  Memory's  chart, 

And  with  my  own  I  shrine  it  in  my  heart, 

And  while  they're  there,  no  impure  wish  or  thought 

Can  find  admittance  to  the  hallowed  spot. 

How  sad  the  truth  that  lessons  meant  to  save 
Must  be  learned  often  o'er  a  dear  one's  grave, 

c5 

And  to  unite  us  in  a  world  of  bliss 

We  must  be  rudely  torn  apart  in  this. 

O  !  blest  the  man  who,  when  afflictions  smite, 

Gets  from  the  blow  a  harvest  of  delight, 

But  doubly  blest  whose  heart  is  guided  so, 

He  reaps  the  harvest,  but  without  the  blow. 


THE    GENIAL    CHRISTIAN. 

FIVE  days  ago,  —  five,  at  the  time  I  write,  — 
Two  friends  came  in  to  see  me  just  at  night, 
A  man  and  wife,  and  'twere  but  truth  to  say 


154  OUR    CHARLIE. 

I  never  saw  a  happier  pair  than  they. 
Genial,  kind-hearted,  liberal,  frank,  and  free, 
You  could  not  meet  them  and  ascetics  be ; 
You  saw  the  sunshine  o'er  their  faces  play, 
And  could  not  part  and  carry  none  away. 

We  had  not  met,  as  we  were  wont  to  meet, 

For  some  few  days,  in  ferry-boat  or  street, 

And  so  they  called,  kind-hearted  friends,  to  see 

If  I  were  ill,  or  what  the  cause  might  be. 

'Twas  sweet  to  greet  them  at  my  home  and  hearth, 

Because  I  loved  them,  for  I  knew  their  worth. 

His  was  a  heart  so  loving,  kind,  and  true, 

No  act  of  kindness  he'd  refuse  to  do ; 

His  was  a  judgment    accurate  and  acute, 

At  whose  decisions  slander's  tongue  was  mute, 

So  uncorrupt,  all  California  might 

In  vain  essay  to  sway  him  from  the  right, 

And  so  kind-hearted,  'twere  no  boon  to  live, 

If  sorrow  sighed  and  he  had  nought  to  give, 

And  all  his  life  long,  to  its  very  end, 

Each  good  cause  deemed  him  its  undoubted  friend  ; 

His  mind  so  active,  vigorous,  strong,  and  clear, 

He  could  not  live  and  be  a  cipher  here, 

And  in  life's  mart,  amidst  the  bustling  throng, 

He  made  his  mark  where'er  he  passed  along, 

And  works  of  science  and  the  charms  of  Art, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  155 

Had  a  sweet  shrine  within  his  liberal  heart, 
And  e'en  Invention,  starting  at  his -will, 
Took  magic  shapes  beneath  his  plastic  skill ; 
Social  and  genial,   friendship  could  not  come, 
And  find  no  welcome  at  his  happy  home  ; 
That  home  seemed  made  to  overflow  with  bliss, 
Enough  for  others  and  for  him  and  his, 
And  all  attracted  to  that  home  were  sure 
Of  something  pleasant,  polished,  rich,  and  pure. 

Just  at  life's  prime,  he  ne'er  before  had  stood 
So  strong  for  work,  so  ripe  for  doing  good, 
So  running  o'er  with  kindness'  overflow, — 
Such  was  mv  friend  but  just  five  days  ago. 
This  morning  tidings  came  to  me  that  said, 
•'That  pleasant  friend,  you  loved  so  well,  is  dead;" 
He  died  unwarned,  not  wasted,  worn,  and  wan, 
Died  as  he  wished,  —  died  with  the  harness  on. 

And  then  I  thought  where  among  all  I  know 
Could  death  have  struck  a  bitterer,  keener  blow  ? 
Or  could  have  thrown  one  of  his  venomed  darts, 
And  pierced  more  loving  and  more  sorrowing  hearts  ? 
Me  thinks,  had  he,  all  his  barbed  arrows  hurled, 
Chance-aimed  among  the  busy,  bustling  world, 
Few  would  have  fallen,  whoever  they  might  be, 
More  bright  for  action  and  for  thought  than  he ; 


156  OUR    CHARLIE. 

None  could  have  fallen  and  heartier  tears  be  shed 
O'er  the  green  velvet  of  the  sleeper's  bed. 

O !  'tis  not  strange  that  any  one  below, 

At  any  time,  should  feel  the  monster's  blow. 

He  strikes  at  random,   seeming,  without  aim, 

Or  as  rude  boys  shoot  anything  for  game  : 

A  harmless  sparrow  flitting  through  the  wood, 

Or  busy  robin  carrying  home  its  food, 

Or  if  some   chance  should  happen  to  suggest, 

They'd  fire  the  death-shot  in  its  unfledged  nest ; 

And  there's  no  rule  that  Reason  could  devise, 

Or  research  find  with  its  acutest  eyes, 

Which  seems  the  one,  comparing  facts  with  facts, 

By  which  the  monster  in  his  butchery  acts. 

Spirits  from  bodies  stalwart,  firm,  and  strong, 

Mount  up  to  heaven  and  join  the  happy  throng, 

And  burdened  spirits  break,  with  joy,  away 

From  their  poor,  leaky,  shattered  homes  of  clay ; 

Look  where  we  will,  at  whate'er  point  we  stand, 

Travellers  are  starting  for  the  spirit  land. 

Farewell,  kind  friend,  to-morrow  they  will  bear 
Thy    form    to    Greenwood    and    they'll    leave    thee 

th?re  ;• 

And  when  fond  love  has  reared  the  marble  stone, 
And  chiselled  there  the  dear  name,  Atkinson, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  157 

Whene'er  at  Greenwood,  'twill  be  always  sweet 
To  thread  the  paths  and  see  thy  green  retreat, 
And  breathe  the  prayer,  God  grant  it  be  not  vain, 
That  we  may  meet  our  pleasant  friend  again. 


THE    YOUNG    PATRIOT. 

How  ceaselessly  God's  glittering  armory  opes, 
And  the  bright  shafts  lets  fly  at  human  hopes  ! 
E'en  as  I  write,  an  echoed  bolt  is  sped, 
And  a  young  patriot's  numbered  with  the  dead. 
In  wealth's  soft  cradle  he'd  been  fondly  rocked, 
In  love's  soft  bosom  he'd  been  sweetly  locked, 
And  all  that  could  by  wit  or  wealth  be  done, 
Were  found  among  the  assets  of  that  son  ; 
And  he  repaid  them,  O  !  how  well  repaid, 
For  all  their  kindness,  all  their  love  and  aid ; 
Each  throb  of  care  or  mite  of  treasure  spent, 
Came  back  with  usury  to  the  hearts  that  lent ; 
And  as  Sorrento,  in  all  stages,  sees 
Buds,  blossoms,  fruits  upon  her  orange-trees, 
So  these  fond  parents  saw  in  his  young  mind, 
The  boy's,  youth's,  man's  developments  combined ; 
Ripe  fruits  were  hanging  in  the  moral  bower,  • 
While  buds  formed,  swelled,  and  opened  every  hour. 


158  OUR    CHARLIE. 

He  was  a  student,   not  in  name,  in  fact, 

And  proved  in  theory  not  alone,  but  act ; 

And  when  at  length  his  college  life  was  done, 

And  he  departed  hale  and  twenty-one, 

Not  a  diploma,  but  his  well-trained  mind, 

Sufficed  to  prove  him  erudite,  refined ; 

For  one  as  well  might  Avalk  gay  Flora's  bowers, 

And  not  inspire  the  perfume  of  her  flowers, 

As  be  with  one  so  cultured  and  refined, 

Nor  feel  the  influence  of  his  liberal  mind. 

We'd  met  but  twice,  but  twice  sufficed  to  show 
He  was  a  person  one  would  love  to  know. 

Among  the  last  young  voyagers  from  Yale, 
Who,  for  life's  trip,  had  set  the  merry  sail. 
Was  that  young  man,  around  whose  noble  brow 
Yale's  classic  garland  worthily  rested  now. 
Of  truth's  broad  sea  he'd  studied  well  the  chart, 
Rocks,  reeves,  and  quicksands,  —  knew  them  all   by 

heart, 

And  now  at  last  that  college  lustrum's  gain 
Must  bear  the  test  of  life's  colossal  strain  ; 
None  feared  that  knew,  nor  ever  dreamed  of  less 
Than  that  the  issue  would  be  found  success  ; 
And  so  it  was,  —  e'en  ere  he  joined  its  strife, 
He  gained  success,  and  sealed  it  with  his  life  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  150 

Unswayed  by  wealth,  undazzled  with  delight, 
He  laid  his  life  clown  at  the  beck  of  right, 
As  much  a  martyr  as  if  stricken  dead 
By  the  fierce  plunge  of  Berdan's  screaming  lead. 

While  yet  within  his  Alma  Mater's  walls, 

His  country's  shrieks  came  echoing  through  her  halls, 

And  his  young  heart  with  quicker  pulses  beat, 

To  throw  himself  obedient  at  her  feet; 

He  felt  with  Horace,  at  his  country's  cry, 

How  sweet,  how  glorious  it  would  be  to  die  ! 

And  when  at  length,  with  bosom  all  aglow, 

Yale  wreathed  his  brow,  and,  smiling,  bade  him  go, 

Like  Pallas  leaping  out  of  Zeus's  head, 

He  leaped  from  Yale's  and  marched  with  martial  tread. 

That  proud  old  ship,  the  gallant  Arago, 

A  perfect  life-boat  both  in  calm  and  blow, 

Takes  the  brave  patriots,  with  a  mother's  care, 

To  waft    them  —  waft    them  —  ah  !    they  knew    not 

where  ; 

No  matter  where,  provided  'tis  to  stand, 
And  meet  the  foeman  of  their  native  land. 

Ah  !  fond  a.ftection  with  a  quivering  lip 
Thanked  God  that  boy  was  in  so  safe  a  ship, 
And  felt  almost,  amidst  old  Ocean's  strife, 


1(30  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  ship  was  surety  for  the  dear  one's  life  ; 
But  ere  that  steamer  had  been  out  a  day, 
Death  came  on  board  for  plunder  and  for  prey, 
And  of  the  thousands  in  that  good  ship  piled, 
Took  but  that  hero,  learning's  foster-child. 
Home,  for  a  moment,  stood  in  mute  despair ; 
It  seemed  all  midnight  with  no  sunlight  there  ; 
And  not  till  Faith  came  up,  her  tale  to  tell, 
Could  the  fond  inmates  utter,  "  All  is  well." ' 

No  greener  wreath  had  'twined  around  his  brow, 
Than  genuine  merit  is  intwining  now, 
Nor  greater  good  could  he  have  done  his  land, 
Than  peril  life  to  lend  a  helping  hand, 
E'en  had  he  lived,  amid  the  battle's  smoke, 
To  mow  down  thousands  with  his  sabre's  stroke. 
He's  the  true  hero,  he's  his  country's  friend, 
Whose  part's  wTell  acted  to  the  drama's  end. 
And  so  love  felt,  and  faith  assisted  love, 
And  so  the  parents  looked  for  aid  above, 
And  though  heart-broken  at  the  dreadful  loss, 
Love's  healing  beams  came  streaming  from  the  cross 
That  cross,  at  which  their  hero-boy  had  given 
Himself,  his  all,  to  justice,  truth,  and  heaven  ; 
All  now  seemed  bright,  except  the  shadow  cast 
On  poor  self  sitting  at  her  sad  repast. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  161 

No  honest  effort  God  e'er  tailed  to  bless, 
Though  oft  it  seem  far,  far  this  side  success, 
As  prayer,  unanswered,  in  the  mode  we  pray, 
Full  oft  is  answered  in  God's  better  way ; 
So  love  now  sees,  with  faith's  pure  light  supplied, 
Success  stood  waiting  where  their  dear  one  died, 
And  though  defeat  in  all  he'd  hoped  and  dreamed 
Writ  on  the  tombstone  o'er  his  ashes  seemed, 
Love  still  sees  victory  crowning  what  he'd  done, 
Not  that  they'd  pictured,  but  God's  nobler  one. 

O  !  yes,  be  sure,  Avhen  merit's  tale  is  told, 
That  you'll  find  Sterling  with  the  names  enrolled, 
And  progress'  mission  was  more  nobly  done, 
For  the  brief  drama  acted  by  that  son. 


11 


162  OUR    CHARLIE. 

NOT  to  the  realms  that  nieny  fancy  fills 
With  her  gay  witcheries  woven  as  she  wills, 
Have  I  been  roving  something  sweet  to  find, 
To  fill  the  void  that  Charlie  left  behind. 
I've  walked  through  Nature,  and  her  buds  and  flow 
ers 

Lay  thick  as  snow-flakes  after  winter  shoAvers, 
And  fruits,  all  ranging  from  the  bud  to  blush, 
Lay  thick  as  hail  'neath  every  tree  and  bush, 
And  plants  and  trees  at  every  stage  from  birth 
Lay  livid  corpses  on  the  lap  of  earth, 
And  grace  and  beauty  all  o'er  nature  spread 
Lay  marred  or  scarred  or  numbered  with  the  dead ; 
And  in  earth's  workshop,  down  beneath  our  feet, 
Creations  perished  ere  one  half  complete  ; 
And  in  life's  mart,  where  all  for  conquest  press, 
Defeat  was  seen  far  oftener  than  success, 
And  of  the  years  allotted  here  to  men, 
How  few  used  up  their  threescore  years  and  ten  ; 
And  when  our  Charlie  bade  poor  earth  adieu, 
And  up  to  heaven  on  his  young  pinions  flew, 
It  seemed  so  like  the  good  God's  usual  way, 
We  had  no  murmur  or  complaint  to  say ; 
We  felt  it  must  be  not  alone  not  wrong, 

O7 

But  a  sweet  note  in  God's  harmonious  song. 


PART   SECOND. 


OUR     CHARLIE. 


PART    SECOND. 

O  !  WHO  that  e'er  received  from  heaven  a  little  bud 

of  love, 

To  see  it  like  a  dew-drop  melt  and  sail  to  realms  above, 
But  oftentimes  has  asked  himself,  with  many  a  tear 

and  sigh, 

~      * 

Why  should  such  fairy  little   things    in    life's  young 

morning  die  ? 
Why  should   they   come,    with    hope    and  joy   these 

throbbing  hearts  to  thrill, 
And  then  fly  off  and  leave  a  void  that  nought  can 

ever  fill  ? 

A  mourner  who  is  trembling  yet  'neath  sad  afflic 
tion's  smai-t, 

But  with  a  mind  convinced  'twas  right,  and  with  a 
chastened  heart, 

Has  pondered  o'er  the .  question  much,  Why  should 
our  children  die  ? 

And  jotted  down  upon  these  leaves  full  many  a 
reason  why, 

And  not  a  reason  of  them  all,  but  to  the  thoughtful  heart, 

Takes  many  a  bitter  pang  away  from  sad  affliction's 
smart. 


166  OUR    CHARLIE. 

WHY    SHOULD    THE    YOUNG    DIE? 

THE  sweetest  gardens  here  below,  the  fairest  earthly 

bowers, 
Are  not  the  landscapes  gayly  decked  with  only  adult 

flowers. 
To  make  an  Eden  like  the  first,  each  hue  and  form 

and  size 
Of  floral    gems    must    mingle    charms    to    make    the 

paradise. 
The  little  green  and  tender  stalk  that  issues  from  the 

o 

roots, 

The  little  stems  that  start  from  it  and  form  the  lat 
eral  shoots, 

The  velvet  leaflets  and  the  leaves  of  finest  texture 
wove, 

That  gayly  flutter  in  the  breath  that  whispers  through 
the  grove  ; 

The  little  buds  of  tiniest  growth  and  microscopic- 
size, 

Almost  unnoticed  and  unseen  by  all  unaided  eyes, 

The  larger  buds  that  earlier  yet  their  way  begin  to 
push, 

And  have  arrived  to  almost  flowers  upon  their  parent 
bush, 

And  those  just  opening  to  the  light  and  gayly  hold 
ing  up 


OUR    CHARLIE.  167 

A  load  of  beauty  and  of  sweets   within    their   little 

cup, 
And  full-blown  flowers  in  adult  bloom,  among  whose 

7  O 

varying  hues, 

The  golden  beams  of  sunlight  play  upon  the  spar 
kling  dews,  — 

All  these  their  beauties  must  combine,  and  into 
harmony  bring, 

Before  earth's  sweetest  landscapes  rise  and  loveliest 
Edens  spring. 

Select  the  brightest,  gaudiest  gem  of  all  that  flowery 
train, 

And  then  with  such,  and  only  such,  adorn  the  lovely 
plain, 

Instead  of  flowers,  a  single  flower,  the  sweet  parterre 
would  grace, 

Instead  of  charms,  a  single  charm  would  play  o'er 
Nature's  face  ; 

The  loftiest,  or  the  sweetest,  or  the  softest  mono 
tone, 

Can  ne'er  one  stave  of  music  make,  unaided  and 
alone. 

Look  up  to  yonder  vaulted  sky  and  view  each  glit 
tering  gem 

That  He,  who  made  them  all,  has  set  in  night's 
bright  diadem ; 


168  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Select  the  brightest,  purest  one,  in  its  aerial  march, 
And  pin,   with  such,   night's   curtain    up,   to  yonder 

spacious  arch, 
'T would  mar  the   bright  and   glorious    scene    spread 

out  before  the  eye, 
And  take   a   thousand   charms   away  from    our    own 

gorgeous  sky ; 
Variety    that    never    tires,    but    gives    us    something 

new, 
Would  then  be  blotted  from   the   sky  and  spread  a 

sameness  through ; 

The   stars  would   then   be   all   alike,  without  a  sepa 
rate  name, 
And    every    little   inch    of   sky   be    everywhere    the 

same. 
Those  brilliant  stars,  whose   names  are    known,  and 

on  whose  disks  we  gaze, 

The   little   snow-white  nebulae,  that  form  our  milky- 
ways, 
"With  those  of  every  hue  and  size,  between  the  two 

extremes, 
Are   gems  on   which   the    rudest   gaze,   and    Science 

looks  and  dreams. 
This  makes  the  sky  that  glorious  page,  so  gorgeous 

round  about, 
Which  loftiest  science  cannot  read  and  still  be  unde- 

vout. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  169 

Tis  sweet  to  stand  in  summer-time  and  look  the 
landscape  through; 

With  scenery  like  in  every  part,  'twould  be  a  dis 
mal  view, 

But  boundless  in  variety,  the  man  of  taste   admires. 

And  though  he  gazes,  year  by  year,  he  never,  never 
tires. 

The  hills,  the  plains,  the  groves,  the  meads,  and 
waving  fields  of  grain, 

The  flocks  and  herds  that  rove  and  feed  on  every 
hill  and  plain, 

The  little  ville,  the  country  church,  the  farmer's 
barn  and  cot, 

All,  all  in  gay  variety,  the  verdant  landscape  clot. 

Select  the  brightest  feature  now  of  all,  that  makes 

it  fair, 
Sweep  off  the  rest,  and  leave  but  this  monotonously 

there, 
The  warmest  lover  Nature  has,  would,  in  a  moment, 

tire, 
And  her  devoutest  worshipper  lose   every   spark  of 

fire. 

'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  fleecy  flocks  along  the  land 
scape  pass, 


170  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  rove   around  the    hills    and  vales    and  clip  the 

verdant  grass ; 
For  happiness  and  innocence   and  sweet  content  are 

there, 
Without  a  single   fear  of  woe   or  single  thought  of 

o  O  O 

care. 
Behold    them    slowly    moving    round    sometimes    in 

single  pairs, 
Sometimes  in  lines,   sometimes   in    ranks,   sometimes 

in  solid  squares  ; 
Sometimes-   they    gather,    as    they    feed    beside    the 

brooklet's  brink, 
Sometimes  within  the  pebbly  bed    go  gayly  in   and 

drink, 
Sometimes,  beside  a  shady  fence    or   shady    tree    or 

bush, 

They  chew  the  cud,  or  look,  or  doze,  or  into  slum 
ber  hush, 
And  when  the  sober,  timid  things  find  something  to 

alarm, 
'Tis  fun  to  see  them  leap  the  walls  and  scamper  o'er 

the  farm, 
And  huddle  in  some  corner,  where  they  safely  may 

remain, 
Until  their  fright  is  o'er,  and  they  can  go  and  feed 

again. 
Let   such  a   sweet   and   pleasing   scene    be  banished 

from  our  farms, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  171 

And  rural  life  would  be  deprived  of  some  delightful 

charms  ; 
But  yet,  in  such  a  scene  as  this,  there's  one  defect, 

alas  ! 
There  is  another  thing  required  to  give  the  coup  de 

grace, 
For  lo  !  among  the  feeding  flocks,  the   sober   serious 

dams 
Must  have,  dependent  on  their  loves,  their  lambkins 

and  their  lambs  ; 
And  while  their  sober  mothers  do  whate'er  is  to  be 

done, 
The    little  lambs  must  frisk  and   play  and   add   the 

glee  and  fun. 
O  !  he  who  e'er  has  stood  and  gazed  upon  a  summer 

day, 
And   seen   them   gambol,    leap,  and   run,  and  gayly 

sport  and  play, 
And   seen    the    mother    oft    look    up,    and   with   her 

well-known  bla, 
Assure    the    little    fellow    near    that    she's    the    real 

ma. 
No   man,    methinks,    that   has    a   heart,   but   feels   a 

thrill  of  bliss, 

To  see  a  scene  as  innocent  and  beautiful  as  this, 
And   feels,   with    all    the    magic    thrills    that   such    a 

vision  brings, 


172  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  flocks  without,  and  with  their  lambs,  are  very 
different  things. 

Where    is    the    spot,    the    sunny    spot    beneath    the 

swelling  dome, 
One  half  as  sweet  and  half  as  fair,  and  half  as  blest 

as  home  ? 
'Tis    there,    from    earliest    infancy,    our    purest    joys 

were  found  ; 
'Tis  there  the  spirit  woke  to  life  and  first  begun  to 

bound  ; 
'Tis    there,    whenever    we    were    plagued    or    vexed 

with  earth's  affairs, 
We  always  came  and  always  found  a  solace  for  our 

cares ; 
'Tis   there,   whene'er  in    social    life    fair    friendship's 

bonds  unwove, 
We    always    fled    and     always     found     the     richest 

draughts  of  love  ; 
O  !  it  was  there,  that  everything  beneath  the  golden 

sun, 
That    sweetens    life,    or    brightens    life,   or    gladdens 

life,  begun ; 
And   where    our   tastes   and  modes    of  thought    and 

habits  took  their  rise, 
And  where   our  souls   received  the  food   that  gave 

them  shape  and  size ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  173 

And  we,  in  fine,  whatever  we  in  after-life   become, 
Are    always,    and    shall    ever    be,    embodiments    of 

home  ; 

And  just  as   much  and  long  as  we   shall   love    our 
selves  on  earth, 
So  much  and  long  we  e'er  shall  love  the  homestead 

of  our  birth. 
"Tis  for  these  reasons,  earthly  homes,  however  homely, 

glow 
With  brighter  charms  and  richer  joys,  than  any  spot 

below. 
However   large,   however   small,   however   young  or 

old, 
The  little  group  of  loving  ones,  the  happy  homesteads 

hold, 
The  memory  loves  to  travel  back,  wherever  we  may 

roam, 
And  walk  among  the  pleasant  scenes  we  used  to  see 

at  home. 
But    still,  e'en    home,    however   sweet,   will    lack    a 

thousand  charms, 
That    has    no    little    prattlers    there    in    its   parental 

arms. 
The  tender  bosom  understands  you  well,  when  you 

declare" 
Your   home    is    happy,    but    alas !    it    has    no    baby 

there. 


174  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  choral  song  of  home,  sweet  home,  has  some 
enchanting  notes, 

That  cannot  be  expressed  bj  aught,  but  by  the  ti 
niest  throats  ; 

The  full  and  perfect  harmony  of  joy  upon  the 
heart 

Is  only  felt  where  there's  a  voice  attuned  to  every 
part; 

An   absent  voice   was  ne'er  supplied  by  substitution 

yet, 

For  O  !  the  song  of  home  is  marred  by  any  one's 
falsette. 

Among  the  endless  forms  of  life,  all  o'er  our  planet 
spread, 

The  father  of  it  all  has  put  the  human  at  the 
head. 

And  although  frailty  writes  its  name  on  everything 
we  do 

And  think  and  say  and  will  and  plan,  'tis  notwith 
standing  true  ; 

And  though  'tis  we  that  make  the  boast,  who're  of 
the  species  "  man," 

Yet  we're  the  ones  of  all  the  world  who  know  it 
and  who  can. 

I  might  go  on,  and  volumes  write,  and  not  exhaust 
the  theme, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  175 

To   prove   that   man's    supremacy    is   not   a  baseless 

dream ; 
But  all  I'll  say  is  simply  this :  if  progress,  since  the 

fall, 
Has  added  aught  to  human  bliss,  'tis  man  has  done 

it  all. 
There's  not  a  living  thing  on  earth,  that  wishes  or 

aspires, 
To  be  a  thing  or  do  a  thing,  an   inch   above  their 

sires, 
But  centuries  hence,  if  centuries  come,  when  earth 

shall  pass  away, 
They  will  be  found  exactly  what  we  find  they  are 

to-day ; 
Or   if   improved   in    strength    or    size,    or    health    or 

beauty,  still 
They'll  be  indebted  for  the  change  to  plastic  human 

skill. 
But  though  we  search  from  east  to  west,  and  search 

from  pole  to  pole, 
And  find  poor  fallen  man   the   best  and  noblest  of 

the  whole, 
God  did  not  choose,  when  he  resolved  to  carry  out 

his  plan, 
To    take,    because    his   noblest  work,    and  stock  the 

earth  with  man ; 
But  as,  in  Flora's  lovely  realms,  among  her  gems  we 

trace 


176  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  forms  of  beauty 
and  of  grace,  — 

So  when  Jehovah's  fiat  came,  life  started  into  birth, 

And  spread  in  rainbow  loveliness  all  o'er  our  mother 
earth, 

So  that,  when  looking  from  on  high,  He  can  enrap 
tured  see 

All  o'er  his  vast  unbounded  realms  unbounded  har 
mony, 

And  know  how  much  'twould  mar  the  scene  to 
banish  from  his  plan 

His  little  animalcule,  as  well  as  lordly  man. 

'Tis  harmony,  all   harmony,  that  throughout  Nature 

springs, 
And    not    a    discord    ever    jars    upon    her    faultless 

strings  ; 
Those   seeming  discords   that   perplex   and  so  annoy 

us  here 
Grow    harmonies    on    Nature's    strings,    before    they 

reach  His  ear. 

And   that   unbounded   harmony   that   thrills   the  Al 
mighty  mind 
Has    in    it    minor    harmonies    all    perfect    in    their 

kind; 
And    even    the    minutest    ones    are,    of    themselves 

alone, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  177 

As   perfect    as   the   general   one,    e'en   to   its    tiniest 

tone  ; 
And  everywhere  the  searcher  finds,  wherever  he  has 

trod, 
This   beautiful   analogy   runs    through   the  works   of 

God. 

Our  race  was  never  meant  to  form  a   single  mono- 

o 

tone, 
But  a  grand  harmony  all  attuned  to  Nature's  grander 

one ; 
God  might  have  made   us  all  adults,  as  Adam  was, 

and  then 
Have  peopled  earth,  this  beauteous  earth,  with  only 

full-grown  men. 
If   childhood    must    to    manhood   grow,    and   this   is 

Nature's  plan, 
He  might  as  well,  had  He  thought  best,  have  made 

the  boy  a  man, 
And  then,  instead  of  toiling  years,  in  getting  up  the 

hill, 
Where  stalwart  manhood  wields  his  power  with  vigor 

and  with  skill,  — 
And  when,  perhaps,  but  just  begun  and  fairly  set  in 

play, 
The    fiat   from    Jehovah    comes    and    summons    him 

away,  — 

12 


178  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Mail    might    have    sprung,    Athena-like,    with    adult 

armor  on, 
And  to  the  manly  work    of  life,  without  preparing, 

gone ; 
But  then  among  the  harmonies  of  God's  harmonious 

O 

plan, 
There  would  have   been  a  discord  felt  when   coming 

on  to  man. 
For  wheresoe'er  we   mortals  look,  we    see   at    every 

breath, 
Attached  to  everything  below,  are  birth  and  growth 

and  death ; 
O  !  how  'twould  mar  the  harmonies,  the  whole  and 

lesser  both, 
To    strike    from    any    single    link    the    principle    of 

growth ! 
O !    no,    the    grand    analogy    that    runs    through    all 

God's  plan, 
'Twould  be  absurd  to  think,  alas  !  would   disappear 

in  man. 

Could  we,  from  some  aerial  height,  inspect  the  scene 

below, 
And  see,  upon  the  stage  of  life,  its  actors  come  and 

g°> 

Among    the    untold   witcheries   that    on    the    planet 
live, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  179 

Each  little  inch  of  time  would  have  its  representative. 

Just  on  the  eastern  edge  of  life  our  little  ones  would 
peep, 

And  on  their  tiny  feet  and  hands  among  the  minutes 
creep, 

Like  those  two  cherubs  Raphael's  brush  'neath  that 
Madonna  traced, 

That  Dresden  has,  with  pious  care,  within  her  gal 
lery  placed. 

And  far  upon  the  western  edge,  close  on  existence' 
brink, 

Old  age  would  walk  on  tottering  feet  and  just  about 
to  sink, 

And  all  between  the  two  extremes,  at  every  inch 
from  both, 

We  should  behold  each  moment's  true  development 
and  growth ; 

And  all  transition's  lights  and  shades  in  all  the  dis 
tance  through, 

And  everything  that  time  with  man  has  power  on 
earth  to  do ; 

In  fine,  see  every  changing  phase  of  size  and  hue 
and  mould 

That  human  nature  can  assume  and  into  which  unfold ; 

O !  where's  the  bosom  does  not  feel  how  fair  and 
fresh  and  new 

The  lovely  panorama  is  of  such  a  charming  view  ? 


180  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But  look  again  at  yonder  scene  and  see  how  wonders 

start, 
Take  off'  your  vision  from  the  whole  and  fix  it  on  a 

part. 

See  how  the  same  variety  has  left  its  magic  trace, 
Yet  all  in  perfect  harmony,  upon  the  human  face ; 
However  strong  resemblances  the  gazer's  eye  may 

strike, 
There   are  no   two  in    everything   in  all    the  world 

alike. 

In  yonder  artist's  studio,  the  products  of  his  art 
Are    not   unfrequent  just    the    same    alike    in    every 

part, 

But   Nature  always   unconstrained   throws  her  crea 
tions  out, 
So    that    each    thing's    identity,    though    sometimes 

brought  in  doubt, 
Though  sometimes  dim  and  indistinct  as  if  about  to 

die, 
It  never   wholly   can    escape    the    expert's    practised 

eye. 

O !  yes,  methinks  that  bliss  above  and  happiness 
below 

Must,  since  in  essence  so  alike,  from  kindred  foun 
tains  flow, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  181 

And   if  we   seek   the   sources  whence   our  sweetest 

earthly  feast, 
Our  hearts  would   fondly  testify  the   social   not   the 

least. 
'Tis  said  the  blessed  ones  above  find  added  rapture 

even, 
Whene'er  they  see  a  lost  one  start  upon  the  road  to 

heaven  ; 
And  'twould  be  strange  if  it  awoke  no   added  thrill 

to  this, 
When  that  new  spirit  safe  arrived  within  a  home  of 

bliss  ; 
But    stranger    yet,    if    when    that    guest    unites    in 

Heaven's  employ, 
The    happy    spirits    do   not    feel    an    extra    thrill   of 


O  !  heaven,  methinks,  must  be  a  place  where  just  such 

charms  appear 
As  fill  the  ransomed  soul  with  joy  e'en  while  it  lin 

gers  here, 
And    that    the    sweet    variety,    that    all     so    dearly 

love, 
To  please  the  ransomed  spirits  there  must  deck  the 

realms  above. 
And  so  God  speaks,  and  tender  ties  are   every  mo 

ment  riven, 


182  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  those  we  love  so  much  below  are  taken  up  to 
heaven ; 

Sometimes  He  takes  the  hoary  sage  whose  work  is 
nobly  done, 

Sometimes,  in  duty's  mid  career,  the  strong  and 
vigorous  one, 

Sometimes  He  smites  the  ripened  youth  just  entering 
manhood's  door, 

And  full  of  heart  and  full  of  hope  he  falls  to  rise  no 
more, 

Sometimes  he  smites,  in  childhood's  days,  our  daugh 
ters  and  our  sons, 

But  oftener,  far,  than  all  the  rest,  He  takes  our  lit 
tle  ones ; 

And  as  He  takes  them  one  by  one  to  holier  courts 
above, 

They  give  to  heaven's  variety,  new  beauty,  bliss,  and 
love, 

And  when  He  wants  to  fill  a  place  unfilled  among 
the  blest, 

He's  always  sure  to  take  the  one  that  will  adorn  it 
best. 

Then  is  it  strange,  since   children  are  the   sweetest 

blessings  given, 
That  God  should  take  our  little  ones  and  place  them 

safe  in  heaven  ? 


OUR    CHARLIE.  183 

Or  that,  to  make  the  world  above  most  beautiful  and 

blest, 
Should  call  our  little  ones  away  far  oftener  than  the 

rest, 
Or  should,  to  make  heaven  seem  to  us  most  charming 

and  most  fair, 
Transport  our   little   ones   above    to    help   attract   us 

there  ? 

Dear  Charlie,  we  accept  the  thought,  and  shrine  it 

in  our  breast : 
God  would  not   sure    have  taken  thee,   had   he    not 

known  'twas  best,  — 
The  best  for  us,  the  best  for  thee,  and  best  for  all 

above, 
For  now  the  happy  ones  in  heaven  have   one  more 

thing  to  love. 
For    in    that   glorious  world    above,  as    surely  as   in 

this, 
'Tis  true,  that  added  things  to  love  give  added  thrills 

to  bliss ; 
And,  Charlie,  though  nor  eye  nor  ear,  nor  heart  of 

man,  can  know 
What  things  the   Father  has  prepared  for  those  he 

loves  below, 
We  do  know  now  what  spirits  live  within  that  happy 

sphere, 


184  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Because  they're  just  the  little  ones  we  loved  and 
fondled  here  ; 

And  as  we  know  what  joy  they  caused  in  home's 
divine  retreat, 

We  feel  the  bliss  of  heaven  must  be,  beyond  con 
ception,  sweet. 

Methinks,  dear  Charlie,  thine  must  be  intenser  thrills 

of  j°y> 

Since  thou  didst  go  to  Paradise  while  yet  a  spotless 

boy. 
And  could  I  cease    to   feel   the   weight  of   this    sad 

O 

crushing  cross, 
And  wipe  away,  from  memory's  page,  the  record  of 

that  loss,  — 
Had   1    the   power   to   bury   self    beneath    oblivion's 

wave, 
And  all  self-interest  sweep  away  from  little  Charlie's 

grave, 
And,  without  weighing  in  love's  scales  how  much  the 

loss  may  be, 
Weigh,  in  the  scales   of  faith,   how   much  the   gain 

has  been  to  thee,x — 
Methinks,  instead  of  shedding  tears  of  sorrow  for  our 

boy, 
We  should  be  shedding,  every  day,  the  gushing  tears 

of  joy. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  185 

O  !  sometimes,  when  the  vision  opes  and  flings  the 

real  out, 
And  shows  the  triumphs  of  our  boy  uncloucTed  by  a 

doubt, 
The  tears  of  sorrow  for  our  boy  e'en  while  they're 

dropping  stop, 
Or  turn  to  tears  of  gladness  when  the  little  crystals 

drop  ; 
And  until  self  steps  in  again  and  breaks  the   magic 

spell, 
We  think  of  our  dear  boy  in  heaven  and  feel  that 

all  is  well. 
And  thus  alternate  day  by  day  we  write,  leaf  after 

leaf: 
To-day  we   write  a  page   of  joy,  to-morrow  one    of 

grief; 

And  oftentimes  we  long  to  have  the  glorious  morn 
ing  come, 
When   self  itself  shall  have   a  feast  with  Charlie   at 

his  home. 


THE    NEW    SONG. 

THERE  is  a  song  the  ransomed  sing,  —  a  song  of  love 

and  joy, 
The    fresh    spontaneous    outburst    of  their    heavenly 

employ. 


186  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Tis  called  the  "  new,"  for  as  the  charms  of  love  and 

truth  unfold, 
The   song  takes  in  fresh  harmonies   and    so   it   can't 

grow  old. 
'Tis  called  the  "  new,"  because   as   oft  as   new-born 

raptures  start, 
The  fresh  performer  comes  attuned  exactly  for  the 

part ; 
'Tis  called  the   "  new,"  because,  as  long  as  endless 

ages  roll, 
The  ransomed  ones  will  sing  the  song  and  never  sing 

the  whole  ; 
'Tis  called  the  "new,"  for  truth  and  love   of  every 

shape  and  hue 
Are  ever  twining  in  the   song   and   keep   it   always 

new, 
And  until  truth  and  grace   and  love   shall  all   their 

stores  unfold, 
That   same    "New   Song"    shall    still    be    fresh    and 

never  shall  grow  old. 


EACH   NEW-BORN    SPIRIT    APPEARS    AT    THE   RIGHT   TIME. 

METHINKS,    'twas    when   the    ransomed,  ones    within 

their  courts  above 
Were  singing,  and  they  chanced  to  touch  a  tenderer 

strain  of  love, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  187 

The  tender  notes,  like  drops  of  dew,  were  quivering 

into  play, 
All  ready  for  some  cherub's  throat  to  mingle  in  the 

%, 

When   Charlie    oped   the    pearly  gate    and  with    his 

new-strung  lyre, 
Stepped  sweetly  up   and  took  his   place   among   the 

heavenly  choir. 
'Twas  just  the  part  for  Charlie's  voice,  the  part  for 

Charlie's  heart, 
And   O  !    how  sweet  the  darling  boy  performed  his 

.destined  part ! 

0  !    then,    how    sweet    the    strain  was   played,   how 

doubly  sweet  'twas  sung, 

When  sounded  on  his  little  harp  and  carolled  by  his 
tongue  ! 

For  if  there  Avas  among  the  charms  in  his  pure  na 
ture  wove, 

A  grace  more  sweet  than  all  the  rest,  it  was  the 
purest  love. 

Sing  on,  my  darling  boy,  sing  on,  I'll  not  disturb  a 
note, 

1  almost  hear  the  melody  from  thy  melodious  throat. 
Perhaps,  when   we   are  done   with   earth,   and    life's 

short  journey  through, 

We  may,  beside  our  Charlie,  stand  and  join  the 
chorus  too. 


188  OUR    CHARLIE. 

E'en  now,  in  spirit,  we  are  there  beside  thee  every 

day, 
And    hear  thee   sing,   and  sing  ourselves  less   sweet 

than  thou,  the  lay; 
And  then  we  feel,  while  listening  to  the  music  from 

thy  tongue, 
How  sweet  it  is  and  blest  it  is  to   be    transplanted 

young. 
'Tis  not  the  titled  and  the  proud,  the  learned   and 

the  wise, 
That  learn  the  easiest  and  the  best  the  language  of 

the  skies  : 
The    babe    that    never    spoke    a   word   while    in   its 

brief  sojourn, 
Goes  right  to  speaking  there,  because  there's  nothing 

to  unlearn  ; 
And  that  dear  boy,  who   never   ceased  to   love    his 

mother  best, 
Is    almost   fitted,    at    the    first,    to    mingle   with    the 

blest. 


EACH    HAS    HIS    MISSION    EVEN    IN    HEAVEN. 

METHINKS,  that  Reason  shows  the  fact  without  the 

fancy's  aid, 
God  has  a  mission  in  this  world  for  everything  that's 

made  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  189 

And  'twere  absurd  exceedingly  to  think  it  can 
be  so, 

That  though  man  lives  beyond  the  tomb,  his  mission 
ends  below. 

The  tome  of  God  tells  everywhere  of  heaven's  un 
fading  joys, 

But  side  by  side  it  tells  about  its  pure  and  blest 
employs. 

O  !  yes,  me  thinks,  when  we  have  passed  life's  fitful 
journey  through, 

We  shall  have  thrilling  joys  to  feel  and  pleasant  work 
to  do. 

The  bliss  of  heaven,  however  rest  may  in  its  essence 
lurk, 

Would  lose  full  many  a  thrill  of  bliss  without  a  touch 
of  work ; 

Of  all  the  forms  of  punishment  inflicted  here  below, 

'Tis  solitude,  pure  solitude,  inflicts  the  deepest  woe, 

But  still  it  drops  full  half  its  pangs  and  half  its  ter 
rors  too, 

By  giving  to  the  solitaire  a  little  work  to  do. 

The  spirit,  when  it  mounts  on  high,  must  grow  a 
different  one, 

If  that  can  be  a  blissful  spot  where  nothing's  to  be 
done. 

And  if,  for  it  would  seem  absurd  to  have  one  doubt 
of  this, 


19  J  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  social  is  in  paradise  an  element  of  bliss, 

The  beings   there   must  be  engaged  in   some   divine 

employ, 
Whose  products  are   the   elements    of  one    another's 

joy, 

A.nd  fond  Affection,  with  itself,  the  question  will  dis 
cuss, 

If  our  dear  lost  ones  e'er  extend  their  ministries 
to  us. 


HEAVEN'S    REVEA  LINGS. 

WHEN  God  reveals  the   mysteries   He  wishes   us  to 

know, 
He   does  not  fill    the   picture  up  and  every  feature 

show, 
He  gives  the  outlines  only  oft,  because  He  deems  it 

best 
That  our  own  powers  and  faculties   may  try  to  find 

the  rest. 
Methinks,  He  never  would  reveal  a  hidden  truth  or 

doubt, 
That  we,  with  our  own   innate    skill,  had  power  to 

solve  without. 
He  always   helps    the   weakest  mind   in   every    trial 

made, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  191 

And  hearty  effort  everywhere  is  sure  to  get  his  aid. 

He's  told  us  much  about  the  heaven  where  He  for 
ever  dwells, 

But  'tis  by  symbols  He  portrays  the  most  of  what 
He  tells  ; 

He  leaves  to  us,  with  all  the  powers  that  He  himself 
has  given, 

Out  of  the  symbols  He  has  shown,  to  form  our  views 
of  heaven ; 

And  though  we  may  not  group  them  right,  however 
wise  and  shrewd, 

We  always,  in  the  effort,  find  enough  to  do  us 
good. 

He's  given  us  hints,  nay,  more  than  hints,  revealings 

meant  to  show 
Our  angel  ones  have  ministries  that  reach  sometimes 

below ; 
And  then   He    leaves  the   precious    truth   in    all    its 

rainbow  hues, 
For  us  to  group,  as  fancy  bids,   and  for  our   profit 

use, 
And  fond  Affection  seldom  fails,  when  contemplating 

here, 
To  feel  the  fact  and  find  enough  to  comfort  and  to 

cheer. 


192  OUR    CHARLIE. 


EACH    FINDS    HIS    PROPER    PLACE    IN    HEAVEN. 

HOWE'ER  alike  we  mortals  are  upon  a  hasty  view, 
We've    powers    and    tastes    and    aptitudes    of  every 

shade  and  hue  ; 
And  thus  in  all  the   walks  of  life,  of  every  changing 

phase, 
There  always  is  some  person  found  just  fitted  for  the 

place. 
And  half  the  ills  and  half  the    crimes  and   half  the 

sorrows  here 
Arise  because  so  many  a  man  gets  jostled   from  his 

sphere ; 
For   he's    the    surest    to    succeed    and    surest    to   be 

blest, 
Who's  in  the    place   and   does    the  work   for    which 

he's  fitted  best ; 
But   when  we    leave    this    mortal    coil   and    on    new 

pinions  fly, 
Alighting  midst  the  happy  ones  in  mansions   in   the 

sky, 
There'll  be  no  veil  about  us  then,  though  it  be  ne'er 

so  thin, 
To    help    us    seem   to    be  without  what  we   are    not 

within. 
For    nothing    but    our    characters,    developed    while 

we're  here, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  193 

Will    prove    our    own    identity    within    that    happy 

sphere, 
And  like  the  needle   to  the  pole,  the    spirit   of  the 

blest 
Is  sure  to  find  the  mission  there  for  which  he's  fitted 

best ; 

And  so  no  jar  or  discord  can  in  any  corner  lurk, 
But  perfect  harmony  unites  the  actor  and  his  work. 

I    love    to   think   what    mission    is   to    our   dear  boy 

assigned, 
I  think  it  must  be  something  sweet,  exceeding  sweet 

and  kind  ; 
I  know  just  what  he  was  below,  —  he's  just  the  same 

above, 
And  it  must  be,  —  I  feel  it  must,  —  his  ministry  is 

love. 
When    sorrow    sighs    with   broken    heart    and    tears 

O 

begin  to  play, 
We    know  he'd  go  with   sunny  smiles   and  kiss  the 

tears  away  ; 
And  if   a   honeyed    drop    of  love    could   melt   some 

heartless  one, 
That  honeyed  drop  would  sure  distil  and  so  the  deed 

be  done. 


II 


194  OUR    CHARLIE. 

DO     THE     SPIRITS     OF     THE    DEPARTED    ONES    VISIT    US 
HERE  ? 

As,  when  the  boy,  while  yet  a  lad,  goes  gayly  out 
to  roam, 

And  seeks  in  some  far-distant  clime  a  fortune  and 
a  home, 

However  rich  or  learned  or  wise  or  honored  be  his 
lot, 

He  ne'er  forgets,  however  small,  his  humble  native 
cot,  — 

He  recollects  his  playmates  there,  the  rustic  girls 
and  boys, 

And  never  ceases  to  retaste  their  rude  and  simple 
joys; 

And  childhood's  reminiscences  make  his  old  native 
hearth 

The  sweetest  spot,  the  purest  spot,  the  holiest  spot 
on  earth. 

And  young  life's  pleasing  retrospects  appear  so  pass 
ing  fair, 

He'd  leave  a  palace  to  sit  down  in  that  domestic 
chair ; 

And  earth's  elite,  he'd  bid  good-by,  with  heart  brim 
ful  of  joy, 

To  meet  again  the  rustic  friends  he  played  with 
when  a  boy. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  195 

And  none  but  he  who  has  no  heart  or  has  a  lack 

of  brain, 
But   loves  to  think   of  early  scenes   and   visit   them 

again. 

It  is  this  truth  that  makes  us  feel,  when  earthly  ties 

are  riven, 
Our  dear  ones  love  to  think  of  us  when  they  are  safe 

in  heaven  ; 
And  if  they  love  to  think  of  us,  they'll  dearly  love 

to  come, 
And  visit  friends  and  scenes  they  knew,  when  in  an 

earthly  home. 

O  !   such  a  faith,  although   it  were   on    airy  nothing 

built, 
Would   keep   the   heart  in  which    'tis    shrined   from 

many  a  stain  of  guilt  ;* 
But  if  'tis  built  on  heavenly  truth,  the  faith  and  fact 

combined 
Would    pour    more    sweetness    in    the    heart,    more 

brightness  in  the  mind. 

O  !  it  must  be  that  our  dear  boy,  who  used  to  love 

us  so, 
Does    sometimes    come    on  angel-wings  and   visit   us 

below. 


196  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Perhaps  he  drops  a  pleasant   thought   to    soothe   the 

grief  we  feel, 
Or  brings  a  sweet  and   healing   balm    our  wounded 

hearts  to  heal ; 
Perhaps  he  brings  a  floweret  plucked  the  other  side 

the  tomb, 
That  gives  a  pleasant  hue  to  death  and  robs  it   of 

its  gloom  ; 
Or  whispers,  with  his  angel-tongue,  Dear  Mother,  I 

am  near, 
And  fondly  thinks,  because  she  smiles,  she  must  his 

whispers  hear. 
And  then,  perhaps,  he  flies  around  and  visits  all  the 

rest, 
And    whispers    some    enchanting    thought    in    every 

throbbing  breast : 

o  * 

And  then,  perhaps,  we  smile  because  we  feel  an  inner 

j°7> 

And  then  he  thinks,  because  we  smile,  we  know  our 
darling  boy ; 

And  then,  perhaps,  he  kisses  us,  as  was  his  merry 
way, 

When  he  went  either  off  to  bed  or  went  away  to 
play. 

Perhaps  our  hearts  did  know  our  boy,  and  by  mys 
terious  thought, 

Communed  with  him,  and  talked  with  him,  and  yet 
we  knew  him  not. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  197 

We  cannot,  with  these   eyes  of  ours,  however  keen 

and  sound, 

Behold  a  spirit  as  we  see  material  objects  round, 
And  it  may  be  that  spirits,  when  commissioned  here 

below, 
See  nothing  but  the  spirits  of  the  ones  to  whom  they 


e>u> 


Howe'er  this  be,  one  thing  is  true,  if  spirits  do  ap 
pear 

Among  old  scenes  and  with  old  friends,  to  hold  sweet 
converse  here, 

It  is  not  through  the  senses  they  their  messages 
impart : 

They  whisper  them  within  the  mind,  they  tell  them 
to  the  heart; 

And  though  we  catch  new  thrills  of  joy  and  many  a 
pleasant  thought, 

We  know  not  whence,  by  whom,  or  why,  the  pleas 
ant  things  were  brought ; 

And  self-communings,  out  of  which  such  pleasant 
fruitage  starts, 

May  be  but  converse  going  on  between  them  and 
our  hearts. 

And  when  we  think  of  those  we  loved  all  safe  en 
throned  in  bliss, 

And  feel  that  Jordan's  farther  bank  is  lovelier  far 
than  this, 


198  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Tis  not  perverting  common  sense  or  lowering  Fan 
cy's  powers, 

To  think  the  scenes  from  yonder  world,  the  spirits 
bring  to  ours. 

If,  while  on  earth,  'tis  such  a  feast  to  be  with  those 

we  love, 
Perhaps    we    can    a    greater    have    when    they   are 

throned  above. 
While  here  encumbered  with  the  flesh,  with  sorrows, 

doubts,  and  fears, 
Bewitching  us  with  smiles  sometimes  and  saddening 

us  with  tears, 
'Twas  not  all  honey  that  distilled,  sometimes  a  sting 

was  born, 
Nor  all  were  roses  in  the  way,  sometimes  there  was 

a  thorn ; 
And  so  the  pleasant  feast  of  love,  like  every  earthly 

one, 
Was  sometimes  of  a  dainty  short,  or  sometimes  badly 

done. 
But  O !  how  pure,  how  peaceful  now  are  our  dear 

ones  above ! 
If  we  have  converse  now  with  them,  it  must  be  one 

of  love  ; 
And  if  it  prove  not  one   of  joy,  when  on   our  table 

placed, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  199 

The  fault  is  a  corrupted  heart  or  a  perverted  taste. 
But  O  !  the   banquet  of  delight  that  he,  unceasing, 

shares, 
Who  keeps  his  heart  and  keeps  his  mind  in  harmony 

with  theirs  ! 

No  tongue  can   tell  what  pure  delight  would    be    to 

mortals  given, 
If  they  were  more  in  harmony  with  those  who  live 

in  heaven ; 
Those  bright  celestial  visitants  would  in  our  pathway 

fly, 

Or   we   should  walk   and  talk  with  them  along   the 

starry  sky, 
And  heaven  and  earth  would  be  so   near,  and  like 

each  other  then, 
The    angels    would    be,  every  day,    the  visitants    of 

men. 


HEAVEN. 

O !  WHAT   is  Heaven  ?  the   anxious  heart  full  often 

says  and  sighs, 
And  Echo,  in  her  covert  hid,  O  !  what  is  'Heaven  ? 

replies  ; 
And  yet  from  Heaven's  own  Delphic  shrine  responses 

come  to  show 


200  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  'tis  a  holy,  happy  place,  where   sorrows  never 

grow, 
And  tell  us,  too,  that  in  the  midst  of  its  unbounded 


The  spirits  keep  their  rapture  up  by  sweet  and  pure 

employs. 
But  all  the  rest,  the   filling  up,   all    gently  touched 

and  traced, 
God  has  not  in  that  lofty  tome  of  heavenly  wisdom 

placed  ; 
Imagination    takes   her   brush    and    traces    vale    and 

hill 
And  tree  and  flower  and  happy  ones,   according  to 

her  skill. 
But  had  the  God  who  made  it   deigned  the   picture 

to  portray, 
We  might  have  seen  upon  what   plan  he    takes   our 

friends  away, 
And   understand,   it   may  be,   what  His  providences 

mean, 
By  cutting  down  the  old  and  young  and  every  age 

between. 
Perhaps  the  different  grades  of  work  in  yonder  holy 

sphere 
Need  actors  who've  reached  every  grade   of  earthly 

training  here. 

O 

The  babe,   one  little  moment  old,  the  sage,   a  hun 
dred  years, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  201 

May  work  the  best  of  all  the  rest  in  their  allotted 
spheres. 

If  Christ  must  needs  have  lived  and  died  and  suffered 
want  and  woe, 

Ere  he  could  feel  and  sympathize  with  mortals  here 
below, 

So  we,  if  we  shall  work  with  them  when  we're  trans 
ferred  above, 

Must  here  have  just  the  discipline  to  do  the  work 
of  love ; 

No  more  or  less,  but  just  enough,  of  discipline  pos 
sessed, 

To  help  the  actor  do  the  work  that  God  assigns  him 
best. 

A  tender  babe  may  win  a  heart  as  gentle  as  a 
dove, 

While,  if  a  man,  he  could  not  fire  that  stubborn 
heart  with  love. 

Full  many  a  boy  has  spoke  so  sweet  and  looked  so 
mildly  up, 

The  beastliest  father  was  subdued  and  dashed  away 
his  cup  ; 

But  had  that  boy  but  been  a  man,  with  logic's  keen 
est  art, 

He  had  not  swayed  that  father's  mind  or  ever  reached 
his  heart. 

To  train  the  young  idea  right  and  teach  it  how  to 
shoot, 


202  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Requires  the  powers  and  aptitudes   exactly  made   to 

suit ; 
The  hoary  sage,  however  learned  or  good  or  wise  or 

kind, 
Is  quite  unfitted  now  to  train  the  young  and  tender 

mind. 
'Tis  not  because   he  would  disdain  to   do  an    act   so 

small, 

But  that  he  cannot  do  it  right  or  cannot  do  at  all. 
The    velvet    touch    of    childhood's    hands    upon    the 

mother's  cheeks, 
A  thousand  tender  thrills  of  love  to  her  fond  bosom 

speaks  ; 
Let  forty  years   of  stubborn  time  its  velvet   softness 

kill, 
That  hand  upon  the  mother's  cheeks  would  wake  no 

gentle  thrill. 
We  think  of  Moses  in  his  ark  so  beauteous,  sweet, 

and  fair, 
And  think  of  tenderness  and  love  in  perfect  harmony 

there  ; 
But  when  a  man  on  Sinai's  brow,  we  stand  and  look 

with  awe, 
And  fancy  paints  around  his  brow  the   thunders  of 

the  law ; 
And  now  the  foundling  is   a   sage,  the  boy  a   hero 

grown, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  2C3 

And    Amram's    babe    is    now    the    heir    to    haughty 

Pharaoh's  throne  ; 
And   although   trained   with    royal    care    in    Egypt's 

richest  lore, 

He  cannot  win  affection  now  as  easy  as  before. 
The  stalwart  father  tries  to  soothe  his  sick  and  suf 
fering  boy, 
And  lifts  him  gently  in  his  arms   and   tries  to  give 

him  joy  ; 
But  in  his  mother's  warm  embrace  he   loves   to    lie 

the  best, 
For  there's  more   softness  in  her  arms,  more   down 

within  her  breast. 
The  stalwart  arm  and  iron  nerve  make  no  soft  downy 

bed, 
For  that  poor  suffering  languid  boy  to  lay  his  aching 

head. 
If  love  could  win  a  stubborn  soul  that  is  on  mischief 

bent, 
Not  Peter,  John  would  surely  be  the  helping  spirit 

sent ; 
If  ponderous    logic    only  could   the    sceptic's   doubts 

o'erthrow, 
Not   sceptic    Thomas,  reasoning   Paul  would  be  the 

one  to  go. 
And  when    the    timid  Christian    shrinks    at    power's 

demoniac  frown, 


204  OUR    CHARLIE. 

'Twould  be  a  Luther's  ministry  to  come  in  kindness 

down  ; 
And  if  the    truth    in    sweetest  tones  would  aid  the 

trembler  best, 
Melancthon's  spirit  would  glide  down  and  whisper  in 

the  breast. 
And  since  there  are  uncounted  grades   of  mind  and 

heart  below, 

To  which,  upon  their  ministries,  the  happy  spirits  go, 
'Twould    seem    there    should    be    grades   like    these, 

among  the  blest  above, 
To  fit  them  to  discharge  the  best  those  ministries  of 

love. 

Yes,  it  must  be  that  God  assigns  to  my  beloved  boy 
Some  lovely  mission  that  secures  and  gives  the  purest 

j°y; 

And  when  we  come  to  see  it  all  and  understand  it 

right, 
And  read  his  histoiy,  line  by  line,  in  heaven's  clear 

crystal  light, 
'Twill  only  seem  a  magic  thrill  'twixt  Charlie's  birth 

and  death, 

Or  inspiration  wafted  down  upon  an  angel's  breath  ; 
And  had  it  been  more   short  or  long,  or  gentle  or 

intense, 
So  sweet  a  bud  of  paradise  had  never  sprung  from 

thence. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  205 


WHY    WAS    HE    TAKEN  ? 

ALAS  !  why  was  so  dear  a  boy,  so  loving  and  be 
loved, 

From  our  fond  hearts  and  arms  and  home  at  such 
an  age  removed  ? 

We  ask  these  questions  every  day  along  life's  weaiy 
way, 

And  contemplation  furnishes  new  answers  every  day ; 

And  every  hour's  experience  brings  something  new 
to  light, 

That  serves  to  show  that  Charlie's  death,  e'en  when 
so  young,  was  right. 

This  world  was  never  meant  to  be,  with  all  its  fruits 

and  flowers, 

So  very,  very  dear  to  us,  to  make  us  call  it  ours  ; 
'Tis  but  a  life  estate  we  have  in  anything  below, 
And  we  must  leave  it  any  hour  the  owner  bids  us 

go. 
And  all  we  really  gain  of  earth  with  all   our  magic 

powers, 
Is  what  we   weave    to  character,  and   that  is  really 

ours  ; 

It  matters  little  what  the  world  may  offer  or  refuse, 
It  only  matters  how  the  gifts   that  God  has  given 

we  use. 


203  OUR    CHARLIE. 

If  life  were  all,  and  after  death,  in  lifeless  dust  we 

blend, 
Our  lives  would  not  be  then  as  now,  a  simple  means, 

but  end. 
'T would  be  the  voice   of  Wisdom  then  with  all   our 

skill  and  powers, 
To  -  get    earth's    sweetest   cup    of  bliss  and  cull  her 

loveliest  flowers, 
And  always  keep  before   our  eyes   this  very  simple 

plan, 
That  if  we  can't  get  all  the  world,  get  all  the  world 

we  can. 
But  since  this  is  not  all  of  life  of  which  we're  here 

so  fond, 
And  all  that's  really  worth  the  name   is  that  which 

lies  beyond, 
And  could  we  see  and  weigh  this  life  through  all  its 

changing  scenes, 
'Twould  serve  to  prove  'tis  not  an  end  but  only  just 

a  means. 
And  all  the  harvests  that  we  reap   of  gladness  and 

delight 
Are    incidents    of    doing    things    and    using    things 

aright ; 
For  if  this  life  were  meant  for  joy  and  nothing  but 

for  this, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  207 

God  gives  the  rough  material  which  we're  to  change 

to  bliss, 
And  e'en    the    purest,   sweetest  things,   that  on  our 

planet  grow, 
We  may  convert,  just  as  we   please,  to  pleasure   or 

to  woe. 
The  farmer  ploughs  and  plants  and  sows  and  tills  the 

fertile  plain, 
His    object  is  not  ease    and  joy,  but  'tis   a   crop  of 

grain  ; 
But  though    the    harvest    is   the   end  and  object  of 

employ, 
Yet,  at  each  honest  blow  he  strikes,  he  gets  a  feast 

°f  joy. 
And  when   the  harvest  crowns   his  toils,  the  honest 

fanner  still, 

Who  tries  to  turn  it  all  to  joy,  will  turn  it  all  to  ill ; 
Because  the  harvest's  chief  design  is  not  for  fun  and 

glee, 

But  life  s  support,  while  we  prepare  for  immortality. 
And   if,  while    feasting    on    the    fruits   and   drinking 

from  the  bowl, 
We  had   a  feast    of  reason    too  and  had   a  flow  of 

soul, 
'Twas   not  alone    or   chiefly   that   the    viands   tasted 

good, 
But  'twas  because  we  used  them  as  our  father  meant 

we  should,  — 


208  OUR    CHARLIE. 

To  feed  these    natures  we   possess,  the    earthly  and 

divine, 
And  make  them  both  in  harmony  grow,  develop  and 

combine. 
But  just  suppose,  among  the   rest,  a  savory  dish  is 

placed, 
We  dearly  love,  because  it  is  in  harmony  with   oiu 

taste ; 
And  though  the  dish  were  nutritive  and  healthful,  and 

combined, 
In    due    proportion  with   the   rest   for  body  and   for 

mind, 
But    feast   upon    that   favorite    dish    too    freely    and 

alone, 

Until  a  slave  to  appetite,  and  health  is  overthrown, 
And   if  the   ills   that   slavery  brings    break   not   the 

oppressor's  sway, 
The  last  resort  of  wisdom  is  to  take  the  dish  away. 

The  gifts  of  God,  to  bless  our  race,  are  every  mo 
ment  new, 

As  genial  as  the  beams  of  heaven  and  gentle  as  the 
dew  ; 

And  yet  not  one  of  all  the  train,  since  this  round 
earth  has  stood, 

Has  e'er  produced,  when  used  by  man,  its  full 
amount  of  good, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  209 

Till  'tis  a  truth  that  man  has  placed  in  verity's  loft 
iest  niche, 
That  there's  more  safety  in  the  world  in  being  poor 

than  rich, 
For  human  greatness  is  so  weak  and  human  nature 

such, 
We    always   love    the    things  we   have,  too  little   or 

too  much  ; 
And    when    too    little,    we,  alas !    neglect    them    or 

abuse, 
And  when  too  much,  we  worship  them  and  all  the 

blessing  lose  ; 
And  when  the  wisdom  that  inspects,  and  never,  never 

errs, 

Sees  what  effect  each  blessing  has  upon  our  characters, 
Sometimes  it  takes  the  things  away  whene'er  it  deems 

it  best, 
Sometimes  it  leaves  to  let  it  sting  and  rankle  in  the 

breast ; 
And  blest  is  he  who,  having  found  his   dearest  idol 

slain, 
So  acts  that  from  the  dreadful  loss,  he  gets  a  world 

of  gain  ; 
But  doubly  blest  the   man  who   sees  his  errors  and 

amends, 

Ere  yet  the  fiat's  spoken  and  the  dreadful  blow  de 
scends. 

14 


210  OUR    CHARLIE. 

We  loved  our  children,  love  them  still,  and  shall  for 
ever  love, 
And  hope  when  parting  here  below  to  meet  them  all 

above ; 
And  since  those  snatched  from  our  embrace  are  safe 

on  yonder  shore, 
We  shall  not  love  our  children  less,  but  Him  who  gave 

them  more. 
Indeed,    we    cannot   love   too    much,   provided   it   be 

wise, 
For    in   a   weak    and    doating   love    the    real   danger 

lies; 
The   only  love   for  things  below  that  wisdom   would 

applaud, 
Is  that  embracing  what  He  gives  and  reaching  up  to 

God. 
Methinks,  we  should  love  everything  that  God  to  us 

has  given, 
Not  only  for  its  real  worth,  but  that  it  came    from 

heaven. 
If  friendship  gives,  and  we  despise,  whatever  the  gift 

is  worth, 
Because  we  say  we  should  not   love   the   grovelling 

things  of  earth, 

We   show  a  lack  of  common   sense   too  silly  to  de 
fend, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  211 

And  lack  of  common  gratitude   to   that  kind-hearted 
friend. 

The  earth  was  given  to  us  by  God  to  foster  and  to 

use, 

But  e'en  Religion  oft  steps  up  to  slander  and  abuse, 
And  says  that  earth  and  everything  upon   this  good 

round  earth  : 
Are  only  bubbles  that  will  burst  and  prove   they're 

nothing  worth  ; 

O  * 

Nay,    worse  than  that,  —  they're    but   a   load   'neath 

which  the  pilgrim  bends, 
And    often    falls    e'en    in    the   path   that   straight   to 

heaven  ascends, 
And  God  is  told,  who  gave  us  earth  so  perfect  and 

complete, 
We  do  not  deem  it  worth  a  sou  and  stamp  it  'neath 

our  feet ; 
True,  as  an  end  'tis  vanity,  —  the  whole  there  is  of 

earth, 

But  as  a  means,  Eternity  can  only  tell  its  worth. 
Earth  has  enough  to  show  us  heaven  and  teach  us 

o 

how  to  win, 
And  life's  the   time   and   time    enough  for   us   to  do 

it  in. 
O  !  then  I'll  love  this  beauteous  earth,  that  God  has 

deigned  to  give, 


212  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  love  this  life  as  long  as  God  shall  deign  to  let 

me  live ; 
And  whether  feasting  on  his  gifts  or  writhing  'neath 

His  rod, 
I'll   try  to  love  whatever   comes,  because    it   comes 

from  God, 
For   O  !    I  know,  if  wisely  loved,  whatever  here  is 

given, 
'Twill  bring  a  joyous  harvest  here  and  blissful   one 

in  heaven ; 
And  O !  the  more  intense  we  love  the  blessings  He 

imparts, 

Intenser  love  for  Him  who  gave  will  thrill  our  grate 
ful  hearts. 

This  theme  we  ponder  day  by  day,  though  dimly 
understood, 

And  ah  !  the  more  we  think  of  it,  the  more  it  does 
us  good  ; 

For  each  successive  look  emits  an  extra  ray  of  light, 

And  more  and  more  it  serves  to  show  that  Provi 
dence  was  right ; 

And  when  we  sigh,  "  Our  boy  is  gone  !  "  as  we  full 
often  sigh, 

Our  faith  and  thoughts  by  mutual  aid  find  many  a 
reason  why. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  213 

The  world   has   grown   unnatural  now,   and   he  that 

passes  through 
With  comfort  and  success,  alas  !  must  grow  unnatural 

O 

too. 
The  social  strings  that  nature  made  and  into  harmony 

wrought 
Have  been  by  self  all   disarranged   and  into  discord 

brought ; 
The  governor  of  this  strange  world,  with  all  its  light, 

is  self, 
And  pretty  much  the  whole    he  wants  of  those  he 

rules  is  pelf; 
And  were  the  bonds  of  social  love  to  keep  him  from 

his  prey, 
'T would  take  them  in  its  ruthless  hands  and  rend  the 

bonds  away, 
And  ravage  earth  with  fire   and  sword  for  that  old 

O 

Tyrant  Self, 
And  fill  his  gaping  coffers  up  with  plunder  and  with 

pelf, 

Or  on  his  altar  sacrifice  e'en  happiness  and   health, 
To  gain  that  grossest,  poorest  gift  that  fortune  gives 

us,  —  wealth. 

And  'tis  to  such  a  world  as  this,  our  children  must 

belong, 
If  they  are  left  us  long  enough  to  join  the  motley 

throng ; 


214  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  they  must  always  be  with   them    in   all   theii 

tastes  and  ways, 
Or  else,  while  mingling  with  the  world,  be   martyrs 

all  their  days ; 
For  though  there  are  who're  happy  here,  who  live 

above  the  race, 
They're  only  those  who've  giant  wills  and  thrilled  by 

sovereign  grace. 

O !  then  when  our  beloved  ones  are  called  away  so 

young, 
And  our  sad  hearts,  at  every  pulse,   in   agony   are 

wrung, 
Some  reasons  might,  at  every  search,  start  up  before 

the  eye, 
To  show  'twas  best,   and  how  'twas  best,  our  little 

ones  should  die  ; 
And  though  full  many  a  reason  be   ideal,  dim,  and 

crude, 
'Twrill  always  do  the  mourning  one  a  wondrous  deal 

of  good. 

Our  blue-eyed  boys  and  black-eyed  girls  so  trusting, 

pure,  and  sweet, 
How   would   they   this   unnatural  world  with    all  its 

vagaries  meet? 
How    would   they  battle    with   the  world   amidst  its 

noise  and  strife, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  215 

And  cut  a  smooth  and  pleasant  path  through  rouo-h 

and  stubborn  life  ? 
That   honeyed    sweetness,   that   distils    and  captures 

every  heart, 
Must  first  grow  acid,  ere   it   stands   the  ferment   of 

life's  mart ; 
That  simple    trust   that  in   our  breasts  feels   ne'er  a 

throb  of  fear 
Must   sceptic   grow  to   meet   the  world  so  false   and 

insincere ; 
The  guileless  heart  that   loves   so  well,  without   one 

selfish  thought, 
Must  love  less  ardent  where  it  loves,  and  feign  where 

it  does  not, — 
And  that  which  Nature   made    to  act  so   delicate  a 

part 
Must  drop  all  Nature's  pretty  ways  and  use  the  wiles 

of  art, 
And  for  that  little  tender  thing  so  loving,  pure,  and 

sweet, 

Must  be  a  hardy  Ishmaelite  in  cunning  and  deceit, 
Or  bundle  of  affected  wit  and  elegance  and  grace, 
And  gain  by  some  sly  ruse  de  guerre  a  victory  o'er 

the  race, — 
In  fine,  to  gain  the  most  below  and  at  the  least  ex- 

o 

pense, 

Must  grow  far  worse  than  now  in  fact  arid  better  in 
pretence. 


216  OUR    CHARLIE. 


O  !  how  the  questions  will  within  the  weeping  bosom 

start, 
And   throw  a   shadow  or   a   gleam   of  sunshine   o'er 

the  heart : 
Would  those   dear  ones,  at  whom  Death's  lance  has 

been  so  rudely  hurled, 
Have   e'er  been  rude   and    coarse   enough    to   battle 

with  the  world  ? 

Or  if  they  would  and  gained,  beside,  success's  high 
est  prize, 
Would  not  the  boon  have  been  obtained  at  too  much 

sacrifice  ? 
Or  was  there  not  some  unseen  taint  within  the  dear 

one's  vein, 
That  would  have  plagued  him  all  his  life  and  caused 

a  life  of  pain  ? 
Or  moral  idiosyncrasy,  whose   care   and   cure  would 

ask 
More   thought   and   skill   than   we    should   e'er   have 

given  to  the  task? 
Were  we  to  search,  who've  seen  cut  down  our  loved 

ones  in  their  bloom, 
And  laid  away  like  loathsome  things  within  the  silent 

tomb, 
We  might  behold  the  sunlight  play  among  the  tears 

we  shed, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  217 

And    wreathing    many    a    rainbow    round    the    little 

sleeper's  bed  ; 
And    should   full   many    a   reason   find   and  many   a 

cause  espy, 
Why   'twas  a  blessed,  blessed  thing,   our  little   ones 

should  die.  * 

That  dAvarf  on  whom   deformity  has  left  so  many  a 

trace, 
We  scarce  could  recognize  him  as  belonging  to  the 

race ; 
That  weary  cripple  tugging  on,  with  crutches  or  with 

canes, 
And  who  must  step  and  hobble  on,  with  greatest  care 

and  pains ; 
That   pallid   youth,  whom    Phthisis    now  has   robbed 

almost  of  breath, 
And    kills    by  inches,    dying    on    a   lingering,    living 

death ; 
That  beggar-boy,  in  filth   and   rags,  the  badges  that 

he  wears, 
Who  lies  and  cheats  and  begs  and  steals  and  for  the 

dessert  swears ; 
The  tourist  in  mid-ocean  wrecked,  beneath  an  open 

sky, 

Where   thirst   and   hunger   wring   his   soul   until  'tis 
sweet  to  die  ; 


218  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The   soldier,  maimed   and   hacked  and  bruised,  with 

little  left  behind, 
Except    a   torso   with,    alas  I    a   shattered    heart    and 

mind  ;  — 
Like  those  of  whom   I've    sung    above    and   those    I 

might  below, 
Of  every  grade  and  every  shade   of  vice   and   want 

and  woe, 
Our  little    ones,  had   they  but   lived,  might,  in    the 

lapse  of  time, 
Have  been  the  children  of  disease  and  woe  and  want 

and  crime  ; 
But  now  love's  hand,  love's  velvet  hand,  has   all   in 

kindness  come, 
And  lifted  up  the  tender  ones,  in  all  their  sweetness, 

home, 
Where  want  and  woe,  disease  and  crime,  can  never 

more  annoy, 
Nor  anything  can  change  or  check  a  single  thrill  of 


And  if  with  faith's  unclouded   eye  we   take   an   up 

ward  view, 
And  see  as  plain  as  aught  on  earth  the  glorious  fact 

is  true, 
The  tear  would  dry,  the  sigh  would  hush,  and  sor 

row  light  to  joy, 
To  think  about  our  angel  girl   or  more   than   angel 

boy. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  219 

But  when  poor  weeping  self  comes  in  all  staggering 

'neath  the  cross, 
And  thinks,  with  all  the  pangs   it  brings,  about  the 

dreadful  loss, 
The    sigh  would   swell  and   heave    again,    the    tears 

begin  to  flow, 
And  all  the  fresh-born  happiness  be   changed  again 

to  woe. 

'Tis  ever  thus,  —  when  God  afflicts  to  make  his  own 

obey, 
'Tis  self  that  feels  the  blow  the  most,  for  self  has  led 

astray. 

He  never  robs  the  industrious  to  give  the  lazy  food, 
And  ne'er  afflicts  the  innocent  to  do  the  guilty  good ; 
And  though  He  crush  our  little  ones  'neath  His 

almighty  arm, 
He    does  it  often  for  our  good  and  never   for  their 

O 

harm  ; 
'Tis  but  uprooting  tender  plants  in  nurseries  here 

below, 
To  set  them  in  a  sunnier  clime  to  strengthen,  bud, 

and  blow. 

'Tis  true,  God  sometimes  chastens  men  not  for  their 
good  alone, 


220  OUR    CHARLIE. 

To  plant  reform  in  other  hearts  as  well  as  in  their 

own ; 
So  kind  is  He,  because  He  sees  the  unknown  future 

through, 
He   never  chastens  more  than  one,  where  only  one 

will  do. 
The   curses  heaped  on  Arnold's    name,  with   earth's 

contempt  and  hate, 
Have  doubtless  saved  full  many  a  one  from  both  his 

fame  and  fate. 


HOW    GOD    AFFLICTS. 

WHEN  God  afflicts,  the  blow  he  deals  is  very  seldom 

dealt 
In  such  a  way  that  'tis  by  none  but   by  the  victim 

felt; 
He   seems  to  want   the    healing   balm   affliction   can 

impart, 

To  heal  the  one  at  whom  He  aims  and  many  a  kin 
dred  heart ; 
It  seems  to  be  the  essence  of  our  Heavenly  Father's 

plan, 
To  strike  the  blow  and  use  the  rod  as  little  as  He 

can  ; 
But  when   He    strikes,  'tis    His    desire    the   blessing 

from  the  blow 


OUR    CHARLIE.  221 

Should  do  as  much  and  go  as  far  as  it  can   do  and 

go- 
He  made   the  mind  with   enginery  of  plastic  power 

and  skill, 
To  spread  the  healing  balm  abroad  in  harmony  with 

His  will. 
Old  History  takes   the  record  up    of  folly,  tyranny, 

crime, 
And  hands  it  on  from  sire  to  son  adown  the  course 

of  time  ; 
The  social  heart   takes   up    the    sigh   from    sorrow's 

gloomy  hearth, 
And  bears  the  dreadful  telegram  about  the  listening 

earth ; 
And  most  of  all,  the   ties  of  kin,  the  sweetest  here 

below, 
Bear  on  the  saddening  thrill  and  melt  the  hearts  to 

which  they  go. 
And  thus  by  all  these  magic   means,  and   countless 

thousands  more, 
He  sends  the    balm  from  heart  to  heart   and   wafts 

from  shore  to  shore  ; 
And  all  the   fruits  of  Right  and  Wrong,  and  good 

and  evil  lie 
As   beacon-lights    which    men   and   states   can   guide 

their  actions  by  ;x 
And   so   but   one    correcting   rod   and    one    paternal 

blow 


222  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Suffices  to  induce  reform  in  many  a  heart  below  ; 
And  though  chastising,  evermore,  in  Providence  will 

lurk, 
'Twill  ever  be,  while  time   shall  last,  our  Heavenly 

friend's  "  strange  work." 

Why  should    He    snatch    our    little    ones   from  fond 

affection's  arms, 

When  just  beginning  to  put  on   their  most  bewitch 
ing  charms? 
How  oft  the   question  will  come  up,  Why  should  our 

children  die  ? 
And  gleams  of  sunshine  often   flash   and   show  some 

reasons  why. 
The  little  ones  so  pure  and  sweet  were  sent  us  from 

above, 
Dependent   for    their    all    below   on    faithful    earthly 

love  ; 
If  faithful,  theirs  is  earthly  joy  as  well  as  heavenly 

bliss, 
If  faithless,   then  the    dear    ones    lose   the  world    to 

come  and  this. 
And  then  the  weeping  parent  feels,  and  says  it  with 

a  sigh, 
O  !  if  their  all  depends  on  me,  'tis  better  they  should 

die. 
There's  so  much,  in  my  case,  of  self  to  censure  and 

condemn, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  223 

It  shows  how  much  I  might  have  wronged  or  failed 

to  do  for  them ; 
This  head  of  mine  and  heart  of  mine  and  body  that 

I  wear, 
All   show  the   tokens   of  abuse   or   lack   of  skill  and 

care. 

The  honest  parent  oftentimes,  however  much  he  tries, 
Knows  well    his   vigils    will    relax   and    culture  grow 

umvise ; 
And  almost  fears,  e'en  when  he  tries  the  very  best 

he  can, 
To   train    his    girl   for  womanhood,  or    boy  to    be    a 

man. 
'Tis  fearful  to  receive  a  soul  that  God  has  made  and 

given, 
And  train  it  so  'tis  wretched  here  and  fails  to  get  to 

Heaven. 

Why  should  He  take  our  little  ones  just  sent  us  from 

above, 
Whom  we  have  just  begun  to  aid  and  just  begun  to 

love, 
And  who,  themselves,  have  just  begun  their  infantile 

employ, 

To  make  their  little  cup  of  life  a  little  cup  of  joy ; 
And  while  reclining  midst  the  down  of  love's  divine 

embrace, 


224  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Have  just  begun  to  think  the  world  a  very  charming 
place  ? 

If  those  dear  ones  could  always  in  that  downy  bosom 

rest, 
And   every  breast   on  which   they'll   lean   would   be 

affection's  breast,  — 
If  fortune    would  forever   smile   and  never  wear   a 

frown, 
And  sickness  never  plant  a  pang  within  that  bed  of 

down,  — 
And  if  this  world  of  ours  would  seem,  all  through  its 

brief  career, 
As  pleasant  and  as  sweet  a  spot  as  we    esteem    it 

here, — 
Far  fewer  glimpses   of   the    truth   would   meet    the 

inquirer's  eye, 
To  make  the  thing  a  little  plain  and  tell  the  reason 

why. 
The  broken  fortunes  that  succeed  the  hasty  heels  of 

gain, 
The  shattered  hearts  and  ruined  minds  that  mingle 

in  the  train, 
The  perjured  bosoms  that  invite  within  their  pleasant 

nests 

The  aching  head,  and  plant  a  sting  within  the  trust 
ing  breasts, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  225 

And  countless  throngs  of  ills  b aside  whose  venomed 
curses  ope, 

And  crush  the  flowers  of  human  joy  and  blast  the 
buds  of  hope,  — 

All  these  things  come  up,  every  day,  to  fond  Affec 
tion's  eye, 

And  whisper  in  its  listening  ear  a  thousand  reasons 
why. 

Why   should   He    take    our   little   ones,   who've  just 

begun  to  live 
The  lovely  lives  that  He  has  deigned  mysteriously  to 

give  ? 

If  life  were  all,  designed  for  us,  and  Jordan's  farther 
bank 

Were  nothing  but  a  gloomy  spot  or  nothing  but  a 
blank, 

We  might,  indeed,  the  question  ask,  and  ask  it  with 
a  sigh, 

How  can  a  God,  whose  name  is  love,  bid  little  chil 
dren  die  ? 

And  lesser  light  than  now  appears  would  aid  us  from 
above, 

To  show  a  God  who  thus  decrees  can  be  a  God  of 
love. 


15 


226  OUR    CHARLIE. 

When  faith  has  vital  power  enough  to  show  our  little 

ones, 

Just  as  they  are  in  Paradise  upon  their  little  thrones, 
And  see  what  rapture  thrills  their  hearts  within  those 

realms  of  joy, 
Without    a    single    moment's    pause    or    tincture    of 

alloy, 
And  see  what  fair  and  beautiful  and  sweet  and  lovely 

things, 
That  move  around  so  gracefully  upon  their   golden 

wings  ; 
Methinks,  we    should   not  heave   a    sigh  nor  shed  a 

single  tear, 
Nor  wish  the  darlings  back  again  to  spend  a  moment 

here. 

Or  if  a  sigh,  or  if  a  tear,  or  if  a  wish,  arise, 
'Twould  be  to  have  the  time  arrive  to  meet  them  in 

the  skies. 

If  life  is  but  the  nursery  that  God  has  kindly 
given, 

To  train  up  souls,  immortal  souls,  for  happiness  and 
Heaven, 

Why  should  He  snatch  our  little  ones  who've  just 
begun  to  grow 

To  show  so  much  of  loveliness  and  charm  our  home 
steads  so,  — 


OUR    CHARLIE.  227 

And  show  in  every  little  bud  and  every  little  shoot 
The  infant  germs   of  loveliness   and  sweetest  moral 
fruit  ? 

If  earth  were  all  the  paradise  where  deathless  plants 

may  grow, 
And    Heaven    were    not   so   genial    as    this    dimmer 

Heaven  below  ; 
Nay,  if  it  were  not  brighter  far  and  sunnier  far  than 

this, 

For  deathless  spirits  to  expand  and  ripen  into  bliss, 
When  we  stand  weeping  round  their  beds  to  see  our 

dear  ones  die, 
We  might  with  reason  look  to  Heaven  and  ask  the 

reason  why. 

Behold  the  little  infant  plants  that  in  their  nurseries 

stand, 

And  shoot  aloft  so  prettily  all  o'er  their  native  land, 
'Tis  not  the  loftiest  of  these  plants,  transplanted  out 

of  these, 
That  grow  the  best  and  look  the  best  and  make  the 

nicest  trees. 
The  little  tender  infant  plants  whose   roots  are  only 

threads, 
That  cling  with  but  the   slightest  hold  within  their 

native  beds, 


228  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Uprooted   and   transported   where   they're   meant   to 

grow  to  trees, 
The    loveliest,   fairest,  fertilest,   of  all    the    rest,    are 

these. 
And  though  a  tree  may  sometimes  thrive,  removed 

and  set  with  care, 
And  grow  as  well   as   smaller  trees,  'tis  very,  very 

rare  ; 
And  in  this  moral  nursery,  Earth,  where  little  spirits 

come, 
And  form  that  jewel  character  and  go  to   Heaven, 

their  home, 
'Tis  not   the   loftiest  spirits   here,  most  erudite   and 

wise, 
That  make .  the  brightest,  happiest  ones,  transplanted 

to  the  skies. 
The  little  one  that  only  lights  within  this  world  of 

ours, 
And  plucks  a  little   gem   or,  two  within   its  thorny 

bowers, 

Flies  gayly  up  to  paradise, —  God's  image  yet  com 
plete, 
Untouched    by    anything    below,    excepting   what   is 

sweet ; 
For  that  unsullied  excellence  that  pleases  Heaven  is 

not 
So  much  the  product  of  how  much  we  gain  on  earth 

as  what 


OUR    CHARLIE.  229 

Achievement,  hoAve'er  great  or  small,  has  merit  or 

has  none, 
Weighed   not   alone   by  what  we    do,  but  what  we 

might  have  done. 
The   widow's  mite,  though  so   minute,  was  worthier 

of  regard, 

Than  all  the  gorgeous  charity  of  any  rich  Girard; 
For  although  millions  measured  his,  the  princely  gift 

was  small, 
When   weighed   against   the    widow's    mite,    because 

she  gave  her  all. 
And  when  the  little  child  goes  up  before  the  great 

white  throne, 
With   but   its   little    nosegay  decked,  its  little  moral 

one, 
He'll  look  as  fair  and  be  as  sweet  and  have  as  much 

of  love 

As  he  who  wears  the  proudest  wreath  of  moral  flow 
ers  above. 
With  all  that  wafts  a  mortal  up  to  yonder  realms  of 

light, 
There's  much  that  presses  down  again  and  checks  the 

upward  flight; 
And  while  we're  gathering  flowers   below  to  weave 

our  heavenly  crown, 
We're  gathering  more  of  earth  each  day  that  serves 

to  press  us  down  ; 


230  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And    though    long   life    cull   heavenly   flowers,    each 

moment  in  the  way, 
'Tis  just  as  sure    to   find   earth's  thorns  and   pluck 

them  every  day ; 
And  nought  but  grace,  abounding  grace,  that  guides 

and  checks  and  warns, 

Prevents  a  man  from  gathering  here,  instead  of  flow 
erets,  thorns. 
O !  yes,  methinks,   to   enter    Heaven,  for  which   the 

ransomed  yearn, 
The  aged  veteran  has  much  more  he   must  unlearn 

than  learn  ; 
And  when  he   goes   to  taste   the  joys  that  thrill   all 

hearts  above, 
And  midst  the  pure  inhabitants  to  do  the  work  of 

love, 
The  ugly  moral  knots  and  twists,  an  earthly  growth 

has  given, 
Must  be  untied  and    straightened  out  to   enter  into 

Heaven ; 
But  when  the  little  child  goes  up,  all   tender,  pure, 

and  sweet, 
And    roves    the    fields    of  paradise    and    walks    the 

golden  street, 
A  single  breath  of  heavenly  love,  a  single  touch  of 

grace, 
Would    every    little    spot    remove    and   every    stain 

efface ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  231 

No  ugly  spot  or  tortuous  growth  is  left  on  heart  or 
mind, 

Nor  e'en  the  slightest  touch  of  ill  leaves  any  trace 
behind. 

And  when  to  Heaven's  pure  studies  there  the  new 
born  spirits  turn, 

The  little  ones  have  nought  to  do  but  set  them  down 
and  learn, 

While  age  so  long  to  errors  wed,  to  earth-born  habits 
given, 

Must  first  unlearn  and  shake  them  off,  ere  studying 
truth  in  Heaven. 

The  ransomed  soul  that  stays  on  earth  for  threescore 
years  and  ten, 

And  mingles  in  the  scenes  of  life  among  his  fellow- 
men, 

Must  carry  through  yon,  pearly  gate,  to  Heaven's  un 
fading  plains, 

Some  little  faint  dissolving  views  of  moral  spots  and 
stains  ; 

Or  if  not   so, — if  spots   and  stains  that  gate  forever 
bars,  — 

The    ransomed    ones,   though    pure    and   clear,   must 
carry  in  the  scars. 

The  Man  of  Sorrows  even  yet  his  bleeding  wounds 
displays, 

The  loveliest  sight  in  paradise  on  which  the  blessed 
gaze, 


232  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  shall  the  ransomed,  who  have  been  by  sovereign 

love  forgiven, 
Bear  no  memorial  of  its  power  when  they  appear  in 

Heaven  ? 
O !  yes ;  for  though  in  Paradise,  that  pure  and  holy 

place, 
There'll  be  no  spot  or  wrinkle  there  on  any  child  of 

grace, 
Methinks,  the  shadow  of  the   past  upon   the    golden 

floor 
Will  show,  though   so  angelic  now,  just  what   they 

were  before, 
And  then  portrayed  in  all  its  truth  the  contrast  serves 

to  prove 
What  love  has  done  and  at  each  glance  awakes  new 

thrills  of  love ; 
But  when  the  little  child  goes  up  so  pure   and  fair 

and  sweet, 
If  there's    a   little    shadow   falls   beneath   his    merry 

feet, 

It  must  be  very  faint  indeed,  it  must  be  very  fair, 
And  on   the   golden   pave    of  Heaven   be    scarce    a 

blemish  there. 

Beside  the  rainbow  oft  is  seen  a  secondary  glow, 
Almost  as  bright  and  gay  and  pure  and  beautiful   a 

bow, 
And  if  beneath   our  Charlie's  feet  a  shadowy  image 

lies, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  233 

It  must  be  like  a  cherub  boy  who  roves  in  Para 
dise; 

For  O  !  dear  Charlie,  though  removed  to  yonder 
spotless  sphere, 

Thou  canst  not  be  much  sweeter  there  and  purer 
there  than  here. 

Of  all  the  truths  in  truth's  domain,  the  richest  and 

the  best 
Is  this,  that  God  desires  to  make  his  erring  children 

blest ; 
And  as   He  knows   each  vital  thread  of  which   the 

soul  is  wove, 
And  which  the  one  that  thrills  with  hate  and  which 

the  one  with  love, 
And  which  the    little  quivering  thread  that,  by  His 

touch  inspired, 
Will  call  out  from  the  human  heart  the  moral  fruit 

desired, 

If  gold's  the  weight  that  keeps  us  down,  the  glitter 
ing  prize  is  riven, 
And  then  we  plume    our   lightened  wings   and   sail 

away  to  Heaven  ; 
If  pleasure  is  the  polar  star  by  which  life's  tide  we 

stem, 
He   clouds  our  sky  and   then  we   take    the   star   of 

Bethlehem  ; 


234  OUR    CHARLIE. 

If  children   are   our  idols,  O  !  He   lays   them  'neath 

the  sod, 
And  then  we  have   no  idol  ones   between   ourselves 

and  God ; 
And   if  poor    earth   is   all   we    want,   some    pleasant 

thing  is  riven, 
That  makes   earth   seem  with  all  its  charms  a  little 

less  like  Heaven  ; 
And  .if   a    single    chastisement    that    God    has    ever 

sent 

Has  failed  of  wakening  in  the  heart  the  sweet  emo 
tion  meant, 
'Twas  never  that  He  touched  a  cord  unsuited  to  the 

thing, 

But  we  had  got  it  out  of  tune  or  paralyzed  the  string. 
The  fruit-tree  springing  from  the   earth,  and  from  a 

vigorous  root, 
Will  surely  bear,  if  there's  no  foe   to  intercept  the 

fruit. 
The  goodness  of  our  God,  that  drops  so  sweetly  from 

above, 
Wakes  in   the   heart,  when   'tis    in    tune,   the    finest 

thrills  of  love  ; 

And  yet,  though  feasting  every  hour  upon  his  boun 
ties  given, 
Man   is    a   rebel    and    a   foe    to    all   that's    dear    to 

Heaven. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  235 

And  then,  to  catch  the  untuned  heart,  He  wakes  a 

harsher  strain, 
Till  the  poor  sufferer  feels  the  pang  and  tunes  the 

strings  again. 
Ah !   mourner    for    a    darling    child,   whom   God   has 

called  to  die, 
Is  there  no  light  from   all  these   thoughts   that  tells 

some  reasons  why? 

Ah !  look  within  and  read  your  heart  and  all  its  his 
tory  scan, 
And  weigh  the  changing  lights  and  shades  impartial 

as  you  can, 
You'll  find,  perhaps,  since  kindness  failed  to  give  the 

blessing  sought, 
He  sends,  alas  !  some  chastisement  by  which  the  boon 

was  brought; 
And  if  this  fail,  like  those  before,  to  bring  the  golden 

grain, 
Beware  lest,  out  of  purest  love,  your  Father  smite 

again ; 
And    each    successive    providence    in    love's    alembic 

pass  j  -I 
May  growr  more  frequent  and  intense    and  crushing 

to  the  last. 


236  OUR    CHARLIE. 


FAITH. 

A  VOICE   from    Nature's   mellow    tongue,  a   message 

from  above, 
In  accents  plain  as  angels  use,  proclaim   that   "  God 

is  love," 
And  yet  from  many  and  many  a  crash  in  Nature's 

grand  career, 
And  many  and  many  a  providence  that  brings  a  sob 

and  tear, 
There  comes  a  harsh,  discordant  voice,  there   comes 

a  mournful  wail, 
That  whisper  to  the  sorrowing  heart  a  very  different 

tale, 
And  Reason,  with  its  boasted  skill  and  boasted  power 

of  thought, 
Is  powerless,  with  its   two-edged  sword,   to    cut  the 

Gordian  knot. 
'Tis  true,  we  feel  He  must  be  kind  in  so  much  good 

He's  given, 

And  that  love   sometimes  shows  its  face   in  His  af 
flictions  even, 
But  oftener  far,  when  sorrow  comes  and  wraps  us  in 

its  pall, 
We  cannot  see  a  hand  of  love   or  heart  of  love  at 

all. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  237 

We  cannot  feel,  at  such  an  hour,  without  the  aid  of 

grace, 
"  Behind  a  frowning  providence  He  shows  a  smiling 

face." 
'Tis  only  Faith  can  purge   the   heart   and  make    us 

really  feel, 
The   dreadful  blow  that   makes  us  writhe  was  only 

meant  to  heal,  — 
'Tis  only  Faith  can  clear  the  eye  and  help  us  look 

above, 
And   see   through  all  earth's  clouds  and  storms  the 

truth  that  "  God  is  love." 
Until  Faith  aid,  however  bright  the  distant  prospect 

seem, 

'Tis  but  a  dim  Apocalypse,  a  very  pleasant  dream  ; 
But  when  Faith  comes  in  all  its  power,  and  sets  its 

beams  in  play, 
The    mists    disperse,  the   gloom  dissolves,  and  all  is 

bright  as  day ; 
The  Heaven  to  which  the   pathway  leads,  in  which 

it  bids  us  go, 
Seems    real,    as    if  just    ahead   within    these   realms 

below. 
When  dear  ones    die    and  we,  alas!    are    staggering 

'neath  the  cross, 
There's   nothing  in  this  weary  world   alleviates  the 

loss ; 


238  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  dreadful  truth,  daguerreotyped  in  every  act  and 

thought, 
Is  that  we  had  an  angel  once,  but  now  we  have  him 

not ; 
And    every    act    and   every    look    and    every    vision 

come 
And  bring  the  lovely  image  back,  in  all  its  witchery, 

home ; 
And  then  we  sit  and  weep  and  sigh  and  ponder  and 

reflect, 
And  call   up  all  the  pleasant  scenes   in    life's    short 

retrospect, 
And  howe'er  sweet,  they've  lost  the  power  to  make 

us  gay  and  glad, 
And  ah !  the  sweeter  they  were  once,  the  more  they 

make  us  sad. 

We  think  of  days  and  months   and  years,  all  brim 
ming  o'er  with  joy, 
Because  so  filled  with  sweetness  by  our  darling  girl 

or  boy  ; 
But  now  time  lags  with  snail-like  pace,  and  all  looks 

dark  and  drear, 
Because  those   little  messengers  of  gladness   are   not 

here  ; 
And  then  we  think  how  we  were  wont  to  wait  and 

watch  and  pray, 
To  see  new  buds  of  promise  swell  and  blossom  every 

day, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  239 

And  how  \ve  daily,  fondly  hoped,  our  dear  one's 
pretty  name 

Would  sometime  stand  upon  the  roll  of  usefulness 
and  fame  ; 

And  then  we  say,  ah  !  Halcyon  days !  and  feel,  be 
cause  so  bright, 

Their  setting  sun  has  left  us  'neath  a  pall  of  darkest 
night ; 

And  then  we  think  of  home,  sweet  home,  so  Eden- 
like  before, 

When  the  young  prattlers  sang  and  laughed  and 
scooted  round  the  floor. 

The  song  is  hushed,  the  laugh  is  o'er,  and  prattler- 
less  each  room, 

And,  save  poor  sorrow's  sighs  and  groans,  'tis  silent 
as  the  tomb,  — 

Far  gloomier  than  it  would  have  been,  had  it  ne'er 
brimmed  with  joy, 

From  that  enchanting  little  girl  or  love-bud  of  a 
boy; 

And  then  we  think  of  all  we  did  to  aid  and  guide 
and  cheer, 

To  make  him  good  and  wise  and  kind  and  merry- 
hearted  here, 

And  sometimes  fear,  however  much  we  tried  to  aid 
our  son, 

There  mio-ht  be   acts  we  did  not   do,  but  which  we 

O 

might  have  done. 


240  OUR    CHARLIE. 

We   think   how   much   we    watched   his   health,   and 

fancied  all  along 
The   course   we   took  to  aid   and    train  would    make 

him  firm  and  strong  ; 
But,  looking  back,  we  shudder  now  to  think  of  many 

a  way, 
By  which  we  might  have  saved  our  boy  to  cheer  our 

home  to-day, 
And  sometimes  think  of  many  an  act  in  purest  kind 

ness  done, 
We  then  thought  wise,  but  now  we  fear  it  was  an 

unwise  one, 
Or  some  ungentle  deed  we  did  that  sudden  passion 

woke, 
Or  some  unkind  rebuke  we  made  or  hasty  word  we 

spoke, 
Or  sweet  request  we  thoughtlessly  refused  our  little 


That   might   have    thrilled  with   many   a  sweet,    his 

little  cup  of  joy, 
Or  some  indulgence  we  allowed  because  he  begged 

us  so, 
We   were    not  wise    or   firm    enough    to   kindly  tell 

him  no  ; 
And  so  all  through  the  buried  past  we  bid  the  fancy 

run, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  241 

And  gather  up    the  memories   of  our  dear,    darling 

son, 
And  whether   to   the    gay  or   sad   the  fancy  chance 

to  go, 
It  always  brings  a  keener  pang  to  thrill  our  cup  of 

wToe. 
There's  nothing  comforts,  nothing  cheers,  and  nothing 

soothes  our  grief, 

And  silence,  like  a  raven,  sits  upon  life's  current  leaf; 
And  then  AVC  call  for   Reason's   aid  and  bid  it  look 

about, 
And  try   to  make   the  matter  plain    and  solve   each 

lingering  doubt. 
We   think  how  short   is   human   life,  how  swift   the 

moments  fly, 
And  had  he  lived  however  long,  how  soon  he'd  have 

to  die, 
And  since  time  first  began  to  take  our  daughters  and 

our  sons, 
By  far  the  most  of  all  our  graves  have  been  our  little 

ones  ; 
That  children   drop   like   Autumn   leaves   and  strew 

the  velvet  ground, 
But  Time,  that  slew,  comes  like  a  friend  and  heals 

the  ghastly  wound, 
That  we  can  see  the  havoc  made  by  vice,  where'er 

we  go, 

16 


242  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Arid  life  all  pleasant  at  the  first  becomes  a  life   of 

woe  ; 
That  ruin,  in  unnumbered  ways,  like  its  great  author, 

roams, 
And    with    its    heedless    chariot-wheels,    rides    over 

hearts  and  homes ; 
That  friendship,  the  divinest  boon  that  God  has  sent 

below, 
Oft,   Judas-like,   betrays  its    friends,   and    grows    our 

deadliest  foe  ; 
That  health,   that  rosy  messenger  from   Heaven,  its 

native  bower, 
Though  sent  to  all,  scarce  visits  one  with  all  its  bliss 

and  power  ; 
For  when  we're   breaking  Nature's  laws,  the   ruddy 

goddess  flees, 
For  in  the  train  of  broken  laws  there  always  comes 

disease, 
And   rebels   against    Nature    will,    in    one    continual 

strife, 
Be  murdered,  piecemeal,  inch  by  inch,  at  every  step 

through  life  ; 
And    'tis    a  truth    exceptionless    that    never    had    a 

pause, 
That  every  man's  a  sufferer  from  breaking  Nature's 

laws ; 

That  wild  Ambition  fires  the   soul   to   gain   the   glit 
tering  prize, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  243 

It  fails,  or  gaining,  finds  the  joy  Ambition  promised 

lies ; 
That  Avarice,   unsated    fiend,   whose   rallying  cry  is 

"  More !  " 
Makes    most,   grown   richer,   every  hour  feel    poorer 

than  before, 
Till  the  poor  miser,  having  grown  so  hollow-eyed  and 

gaunt, 
Pines    on  from   lack    of  care   and   food   and   dies    at 

length  from  want ; 
And  appetites  and  passions   swarm  like  locusts  here 

below, 
Destroying  every  pleasant  thing  and  scattering  want 

and  woe ; 

And  that  gross  despot,  grovelling  sense,  with  his  de 
basing  train, 
Stands    keeping   vigil,    everywhere,    to    rivet    on   his 

chain. 
All  these,  alas  !  and  myriads  more  too  numerous  to 

be  sung, 
All  must  encounter  every  hour  who're  not  promoted 

young. 

Thus  while  with  Reason's  eagle  eye  we're  passing  in 

review 
These    Scyllas    and    Charybdes,    strown    life's    fitful 

journey  through, 


244  OUR    CHARLIE. 

A  momentary  thrill  of  joy  is  for  our  solace  given, 
To  think  our  boy  escaped  them   all  and  landed  safe 

in  Heaven ; 
But  O  !  'tis  but  one  ray  of  light  that  flashes  through 

the  gloom, 
Unbroken  night  rebounds  again  from  little  Charlie's 

tomb. 
The   little  face   that  smiled  so   sweet   and   made    all 

bright  before, 
Lives    but    on    faithful    memory's    leaf   and    in    this 

bosom's  core 
No  magic,   Reason  can  bestow,  or  potence   lend  the 

sight, 
Can  make  his  Heaven  seem  real  gain  and  make  his 

loss  seem  right ; 
'Tis   not    till   Faith   comes    kindly   in,   and  with   her 

magic  wand, 
Parts   the    dim    veil    'twixt    Heaven    and    earth    and 

shows  us  all  beyond, 
And  makes  us  feel  so   plain  we    know,  without   the 

sense  of  sight, 

O         ' 

That  what  God   does,  whate'er  it  be,  is   good   and 

just  and  right ; 
And  more  than  this,  when  gauged  and  tried  by  love's 

divinest  test, 
Whate'er  he  does,  severe  or  kind,  it  must  be  for  the 

best ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  245 

And  when,  with  faith  to  aid  and  guide,  we've  looked 

the  vision  through, 
Till  all  the  film  of  doubt  is  gone  and  we  can  feel  'tis 

true, 

And   God's  unerring  sovereignty  and    Heaven's   un 
fading  bliss, 
And   that    there    is    an    endless   life    awaits   us    after 

this, 
And  when  the  ties  that  bind  us  here  shall  one   by 

one  be  riven, 
The  good  will  feast  forever  on  the   endless  bliss   of 

Heaven  — 
When    all   these    truths,    ideal   now,    shall   into   real 

grow, 
And  seem  as  destitute  of  doubt  as  things  we  see  and 

know, 
The  pang  of  sorrow  that  we   feel   at   losing   such  a 

boy, 
When  touched  by  grace,  will  be  but  thrills  of  purest 

heavenly  joy. 

When  captured  by  the  charms  of  faith,  the  head  and 

heart  unite, 
And  both  can  banquet  at  her  board  with  profit  and 

delight, 
And  life  and  death,  disease  and  health,  and  loss  and 

gain  shall  be 


246  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The   perfect    notes  when   all    combined    that    make 

Heaven's  harmony; 
Then,  when  our  prattling  innocents  fly  off  to  yonder 

shore, 
And  shed  the  sunshine  of  their  love  on  home,  sweet 

home,  no  more, 
The  only  sigh  of  sorrow  then  from  feeling's  fount  to 

start, 
The  only  pang  of  anguish   then   to  rend  the   aching 

heart, 
Would  be  the  sigh,  would  be  the  tear,  would  be  the 

pang  of  pain, 
That  we  should  never  see  or  hear  our  darling  ones 

again ; 
And  when  we  take  in  all  the  truth,  the   sorrow  for 

our  boy 

Is  more  than  paid,  a  thousand  times,  with  little  Char 
lie's  joy ; 
And  when  we  can  lay  self  aside,  though  staggering 

'neath  the  rod, 
And  feel  the  deed  was  done  in  love,  because  'twas 

done  by  God, — 
The  God  that  spread  yon  dome  of  blue  and  pinned 

it  up  with  stars, 
That  move  around  in  magic  dance  without  mistakes 

or  jars,  — 

Who  traced  the  shrubs  and  trees  of  earth  and  beau 
tified  the  gems, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  247 

By  stringing  richest  jewelry  upon  their  boughs  and 

stems,  — 
Who    made    the    boundless   universe    around,   below, 

above, 
And  wrote  upon  it  everywhere  the  beauteous  motto, 

"Love;" 
Or  if  His  wrath,  instead  of  love,  appears  our  hopes 

to  scathe, 

'Tis  but  another  formula  of  heavenly  love  to  faith, 
Who  made  these  wondrous  frames  we  wear  so  curi 
ously  wove, 
These  minds  of  ours  to  meditate,  these  hearts  of  ours 

to  love, 
And   these    undying    souls  within,  which,  when   the 

body  dies, 
Will  live   and   seek  companionship  above   the   starry 

skies,  — 
'Tis  such  a   God  who   did   the   deed,  who  took  our 

Charlie  home, 
To  sing  the  song  and  rove  the  fields  above  yon  starry 

dome, 

To  study  all  his  wondrous  works  as  spirits  do  above, 
And  most  of  all  and  best  of  all,  the  lessons  of  His 

love. 

While  thus  we  look  and  thus  we   think  and  ponder 
on  the  act, 


248  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  read  it  with  the  eye  of  faith  and  feel  it  as  a 
fact; 

Our  bosoms  heave  with  wild  delight  that  He  whose 
name  is  love 

Should  deem  it  best  that  our  dear  boy  should  live 
with  Him  above, 

And  that  'twould  add  new  thrills  of  bliss  to  Heaven's 
unbounded  joy, 

That  Charlie  should  an  angel  be,  instead  of  little 
boy; 

And  that  to  make  e'en  Heaven  itself,  more  beautiful 
and  fair, 

He  came  to  us  and  took  from  us  our  little  Charlie 
there. 

And  now  no  longer  sweetening  earth,  by  his  bewitch 
ing  love, 

He  draws  us  up  and  makes  it  sweet  to  lift  our 
thoughts  above, 

And  when  we  quite  forget  the  past  and  cast  our  eyes 
before, 

To  look  with  faith's  unclouded  eye  to  yonder  "  shin 
ing  shore," 

A.nd  feel  the  truth  in  all  its  power  that  it  portrays 
so  plain, 

That  there's  the  spot  where  we  shall  meet  our  little 
boy  again ; 

Our  struggling  bosoms  leap  for  joy  and  we'i-e  com 
pelled  to  say, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  249 

"  Fly  swifter  round  ye  wheels  of  time  and  bring  the 

welcome  day." 
O  !  when  on  prospects  such  as  these  our  meditations 

run, 
The  heart  looks  up  brimful  of  love  and  says,  "  Thy 

will  be  done." 


THE    PAST. 

HA  !  restless  spirit,  dost  thou  yet  stand  shuddering  at 

the  cross, 
And  rove  around  and  weep  among  the  memories  of 

thy  loss  ? 
O  !  linger  still,  for  much  of  all  the  good  that  we've 

amassed 
Has  come  from    lessons   that  we   learned   by  talking 

with  the  past; 
Success  and  failure  both  alike  have  choicest  things  to 

give, 
And  good  and  bad  have  wit  enough  to  teach  us  how 

to  live ; 
For    though   along   tb.e    buried  past  the   wisest  ones 

will  throng, 
There's  such  a  thing  as  lingering  there  and  studying 

there  too  long. 
The  limit  of  our  stay  should  be  to  get  but  just  the  lore 


250  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That   may  suffice    to  help  us  live    more  nobly  than 

before ; 
All  else  were  lumber  from  the  past  except  the  moral 

food, 
To  strengthen  minds,  to  sweeten  hearts,  and  do  the 

spirit  good  ; 
But    he    that   lingers    in  the    past,    where  no   sweet 

floweret  blooms, 
Is  sure  to  be  like  him  at  length  who  dwelt  among 

the  tombs. 

But  yet,  methinks,  the  danger  is  that  earth's  unthink 
ing  throng 
Will  linger  there  not  long  enough  far   oftener  than 

too  long ; 
And  while  they're  there,  their  thoughts,  alas  !  Avill  be 

so  vague  and  crude, 
They  scarcely  get  a  single  thing  that  really  does  them 

good, 
And  so  there  is  a  double  loss  that  pierces  through 

and  through, 
They  lose  the   darling  of  their  hearts   and  lose  the 

blessing  too. 

O  !  yes,  till  weary  life  goes  out  with  all  its  days  and 

years, 
We  shall  go  back  to  Charlie's  grave   and  water  it 

with  tears, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  251 

And  so  'twill  keep  remembrance  fresh  and  let  it 
not  grow  dim, 

For  although  he's  so  far  from  us,  we're  fast  ap 
proaching  him. 


TEARS. 

YES,  mourning   parents  bend  above   your  lost  one's 

little  bier, 
There    is    a    spell   from    Paradise    that  quivers  in   a 

tear, 
For  O !  the  tear  the  heart  sends  out,  all  pure   and 

bright  and  warm, 
Will  melt  the  soul   in  tenderness  and  never  do  you 

harm. 
The  struggling  soul  that  finds  at  last  its  sins  are  all 

forgiven, 
Ne'er  starts,  without  a  flood  of  tears,  upon  the  road 

to  Heaven. 
The   new-born    bliss   forgiveness    brings,    the   crystal 

flood  employs, 

To  show  the  depth  and  loveliness  of  its  diviner  joys, 
'Tis    better    far,    our    Father    says,    in   his   unerring 

tome, 

To,  be  within  the  mourner's  cot  than  in  the  revel 
ler's  home ; 
The  haughtiest  heart,  the  proudest  heart,  the  guiltiest 

heart  will  melt, 


252  OUR    CHARLIE. 

If  anywhere  where  tears  are  shed  and  keenest  anguish 

felt; 
Though  Sorrow  has  a  shaft  to  wound,  she  has  a  balm 

to  heal, 
She  has  a  dreadful  pang  to  bear  and  pleasant  thrills 

to  feel, 
But  never  till  she's  tried  her  powers  and  every  trial 

failed, 
And  every  bulwark  round  the  heart  she  could  assail, 

assailed, 

Does  she  the  sword  of  justice  draw  and  in  the  cul 
prit  thrust, 
Or  e'en  beneath  her  vengeful  heels  she  tramples  him 

to  dust. 
O !    Sorrow   has   a  mission   here,   the    sweetest   ever 

given, 
To  melt  the  heart  till  it  will  take  the  signet  seal  of 

Heaven ; 
But  if  she  fail,  with  all  her  powers,  to  cause  the  heart 

to  feel, 

Or  fail  to  soften  it  enough  to  take  the  signet  seal, 
Or  if  the  bosom    still  remains  un thrilled  and  un de 
vout, 
'Tis  that   it  takes  in   other   things   and   leaves  poor 

Sorrow  out ; 
O !    then  let    us    let  Sorrow    in    until    her   mission's 

through. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  253 

And  she  has  done  us  all  the  good  she  has  the  power 
to  do. 


Ah!  mourner,  do  not  dry  your  tears,  but  let  them 
freely  flow, 

For  from  so  pure  a  crystal  fount  the  sweetest  flower 
ets  grow ; 

O !  check  them  not,  the  tears  will  cease  when  Sor 
row's  work  is  o'er, 

And  'twould  not  benefit  the  heart  to  stay  a  moment 
more. 

'Tis  true  she  tarries  longer  where  she's  kindly  asked 
to  stay, 

And  where  the  heart  communes  with  her  and  hears 
her  every  day, 

But,  then,  she'll  plat  a  crown  for  him  and  take  away 
the  cross, 

And  leave  a  gain  enough  to  pay  a  thousand  times 
the  loss ; 

And  round  the  wounded  spirit's  brow  entwine  a  gar 
land,  wove 

Of  faith  and  hope,  and  that  bright  gem,  the  best  and 
greatest,  love. 


254  OUR    CHARLIE. 


SABBATH-SCHOOL    INCIDENT. 

'TwAS  in  the  little  Sabbath  School  where  Charlie 
used  to  go, 

And  he  was  seldom  absent  there,  because  he  loved 
it  so,  — 

And  though  as  merry  as  a  lark  through  all  the  live 
long  day, 

And  foremost  in  the  merry  ring  whene'er  they  met 
for  play  ; 

And  if  in  farce  or  comedy,  whichever  part   he  bore, 

He  always  acted  well  his  part  and  always  caused  a 
roar; 

And  when  he  wore  his  soldier-hat  or  took  his  sword 
or  gun, 

He  made,  for  one  as  small  as  he,  a  great  amount  of 
fun ; 

And  old  or  young  or  grave  or  gay  or  lively  or 
severe, 

Were  always  glad,  exceeding  glad,  to  see  our  boy 
appear ; 

For  it  was  known  to  every  one  who  knew  our  dar 
ling  son, 

Where'er  he  came  that  there  would  be  some  pure 
good-natured  fun ; 

For  Charlie  had  a  fund  of  sense  and  fund  of  mother 
wit, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  255 

And  often  made  a  sage  remark  and  oft  a  happy  hit, 
And  home,  our  home,  was  never  made   so  gayly  to 

rejoice, 
As    when    it    rung    from    room    to    room   with    little 

Charlie's  voice ;  — 
But   though   a   merrier   boy  than  he  you'd  find  not, 

if  you  search, 
He  was  a  perfect  model  boy  at  Sabbath  School  and 

Church : 
His    open   manly    countenance   and  smiling   cheerful 

face 
Seemed  always  quite  in  harmony  with  business,  time, 

and  place, 
And  never  did  our  darling    son,   in    act   or  word  or 

air, 
Commit  the  slightest  breach  of  right  or  strict  decorum 

there ; 
And  when   he    saw  a   boisterous    boy  or   thoughtless 

girl  depart 
From  rules  of  strict  propriety,  it  always   pained  his 

heart, 
And  many  a  time  his  mild  blue   eye    ran    o'er  with 

tears,  alas  ! 
When   some    rude   girl   or   ruder  boy   disturbed   the 

little  class. 

It  was  the  last   fine   Sabbath-day,  when  Charlie  was 
to  meet 


250  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  last  fleet  hour  that  he,  alas  !  would  occupy  that 

seat  ; 

Intently  as  the  busy  bee  the  rosy  nectar  sips, 
He'd  drunk  in  every  thought  and  word  that  left  the 

i/ 

teacher's  lips  ; 
He'd  heard  the  girls  their   hymns   repeat,  the   boys 

their  lessons  say, 
And  when  the  teacher  knelt  in  prayer,  he  knelt  with 

her  to  pray ; 
And  when  the  little  boys  and  girls   had   sung  their 

pleasant  airs, 
He  joined  his  rich  and  mellow  voice  in  sweet  accord 

with  theirs,  — 
O !   never  was    a    happier    boy,   we    always    used   to 

say, 

And  never  was  he  happier  than  he  was  that  Sabbath- 
day. 

Their   business    now    was    almost    done,    the    session 

almost  o'er, 
But  'twas  their  custom  ere  they  went  to  sing  a  little 

more, 
When  Charlie  said,  "  Please  let  us  sing,  Miss  Spear, 

before  we  go, 

'  I  want  to  be  an  angel,'  for  I  love  to  sing  it.  so." 
'Twas  sung,  and  his  sweet  mellow  voice  helped  sing 

the  favorite  strain, 


•    OUR    CHARLIE.  257 

He   sang,   but  with   that   little    choir  he  never   sang 

again ; 
He  had  his  wish,  —  a  few  weeks  more  and  all  earth's 

ties  were  riven, 
And   Charlie   was  an  angel-boy  among  the   blest  in 

Heaven. 

It  is  not  strange  a  little  child,  who  dearly  loved  to 

sing, 

Should  choose  that  favorite  little  air,  for  'tis  a  charm 
ing  thing ; 
But  when  I  think  its  words  and  thoughts  and  honeyed 

notes  combined 
Were  so  in  harmony  with  his  pure  and  gentle  heart 

and  mind ; 
It  is  a  very  pleasant  thought  that  when  he  took  his 

flight 
From   that   retreat    of  innocence    so   brimming   with 

delight, 
He   went  off  singing,   as    he    flew,   the    same    sweet 

melody, 
"I  want    to  be  an  angel,"  and  he  went  to  Heaven 

to  be, 
And  then,  methought,  on  new-born  wings,  I  saw  our 

Charlie  soar, 
And  enter  through  the  pearly  gates  upon  the  golden 

floor, 

17 


258  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Still  singing,   but  a  little  changed  to  suit  the   spirit- 
land, 
"  I  am  a  little  angel-boy  and  with  the  angels  stand." 


INCIDENT. 

His    little    sister    and    himself   were    at    their   usual 

play, 

And  Charlie  seemed  more  learned  and  wise  than  was 

his  wont  that  day : 

He  talked  of  secular  affairs  as  wisely  as  before, 
And  then  began  to  show  his  fund  of  theologic  lore ; 
He  talked  of  earth  and  sea  and  air  and  of  the  starry 

sky, 
And  how  God  hung  the  curtain  up  and  pinned  it  up 

so  high  ; 
He  told  her  how  God  made  the  world  and  told  how 

long  it  took, 
And  how,  before  'twas  finished  quite,  old  chaos  used 

to  look; 
He  told  her  how  He  scooped  the  bed  and  put  the 

ocean  there, 
And  how  He  makes  the  lightnings  flash  and  bellow 

through  the  air ; 
He  told  her  how  he  formed  the  sun  and  made  it  look 

so  bright, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  259 

And  how  He  put  in  gas  enough  to  furnish  earth  with 

light ; 
He  told  her  how  He  made  the  moon  and  hung  it  in 

the  air, 
And  how  and  why  He  made  the  man  who's  always 

sitting  there ; 
He  cleared  up  all  the  mysteries  how  man  was  made 

and  why, 
And  what  they'll  be  and  where  they'll  go,  when  they 

shall  come  to  die.  — 

For  Charlie,  in  Theology,  was  just  as  orthodox 
In  all  his  views  of  sacred  truth  as  Calvin,  Huss,  or 

Knox, 
And  when  his  logic  failed  to  bring  the  true  solution 

O  O 

out, 

He  always  had  another  way  by  which  to  solve  the 
doubt. 

He  told  her  God  had  power  enough  to  lift  this  world 
and  all, 

And  toss  it  in  the  air  as  we  can  toss  a  rubber  ball  ; 

He  told  her  nothing  here  below  was  from  his  knowl 
edge  hid, 

And  God  could  see  the  smallest  act  that  anybody 
did,— 

And  all  the  marvels  he  could  tell  or  wondrous  things 
could  say, 


260  OUR    CHARLIE. 

He  told  his  sister  while  she  sat  and  listened  on  that 

day, 
And  Helen  heard   him   talk    and   talk,   till   she   was 

almost  awed, 
To  hear  him  talk  so  learnedly  about  God's  works  and 

God, 
And  said  to  Charlie,  leaning  on   her  elbow   on   the 

7  O 

floor, 
As  if  she  never   even    dreamed   he   knew   so  much 

before,  — 
"  How  is  it,  Charlie,  that  you  know  (and  here  she 

gave  a  nod) 
So  much  as  you  have  told  about  the  works   of  God 

and  God?" 
And  Charlie  answered  gravely  as  a  judge  upon  the 

bench,  — 
"I  do   not  know,  except  it  be   because   I've   studied 

French." 


CHARLIE    AT    THE    COMMUNION. 

'TWAS  one  of  those  sweet   Sabbath-days  when    those 

that  love  the  Lord 
Are  wont  to  gather  round  His  board  obedient  to  His 

word,  — 
When    none    but    those    who    think    they've    met    a 

Saviour  from  above 


OUR    CHARLIE.  261 

Are  wont  to  come   and  gladly  take   the   symbols  of 

His  love, 
And  Charlie  to  his  mother  said,  as  sweet  as  cherubs 

say, 
"  Dear  Mamma,  let  me  go  with  you  and  sit  with  you 

to-day." 
"  But  'tis  Communion,"  she  replied,  "  when  children 

all  retire  ; 
No  sermon's  given  nor  organ  played  nor  singing  by 

the  choir." 
"  But   let  me   go,  for  Christ,  you   know,  bade  little 

children  come, 
And  I'd  much  rather  go  with  you  than  stay,  alas ! 

at  home." 

And  so  we  went,  and  Charlie  went,  all  sparkling  with 

delight, 
And  watching   every  word  and   act   throughout  the 

simple  rite ; 
And  when   they  prayed,    he  joined  in   prayer,    and 

when  they  sung,  he  sung, 
And  when  the   pastor   rose   and   spoke,  he    on   each 

accent  hung. 
O  !  how  he  watched  the  minister  while  breaking  up 

the  bread 
And   pouring  out  the  sacred  wine   which  looked   so 

pure  and  red  !  — 


262  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  when  they  took  the  bread  and  wine,  how  calm 
he  looked  to  see, 

And  seemed  as  if  he  wished  to  say,  O !  is  there  none 
for  me  ? 

It  seemed  as  if  his  little  heart  was  perfectly  in  tune 

With  what  a  Christian's  ought  to  he  when  going  to 
commune. 

And  so  delighted  Charlie  was,  that  when  we  went 
away, 

He  said,  "  Dear  Mamma,  let  me  come  on  each  Com 
munion-day, 

I  love  to  sit  with  you,  Mamma,  upon  that  little  seat, 

For  everything  appears  so  calm  and  everything  so 
sweet ; 

I  hope  that  you  will  always  let  your  little  Charlie 
come, 

'Tis  so  much  sweeter  staying  here  than  'tis  to  stay 
at  home." 

And  when  assured  that  he  might  come,  I  can't  de 
scribe  the  joy 

That  wreathed  the  face  and  lit  the  eye  of  our 
beloved  boy. 

Ah !  little  dreamed  we,  that  when  next  around  that 

festal  board 
We  should  sit  down  to  celebrate  the  sufferings  of  our 

Lord, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  263 

The  little  cherub  at  our  side  would  from  our  hearts 

be  riven, 
And  sit  down  sweetly  at  the  side   of  Him  he  loved 

in  Heaven. 

We    thank    thee,    Heavenly    Father,    for    the    honor 

Thou  hast  done, 
To  let  our  only  son  sit  down  beside  thine  only  Son. 

Seems  this  a  trifle  to  our  minds?  it  seems  not  so  to 

ours, 
'Tis    one    of   sweet   remembrance's   enchanting   little 

flowers ; 
It  is  a  flower  that  never  fades,  but  which  unceasing 

gives 
A    SAveet    aroma   to    the    heart   as   long   as    memory 

lives  ; 

And  this  delightful  incident  will  ever  serve  to  show 
That  Charlie's  heart  was  tuned  for  Heaven,  while  he 

was  here  below  ; 
And  howe'er  gay  and  full  of  fun  when  in  a  merry 

mood, 
He  dearly  loved  to  be  among  the  gentle,  pure,  and 

good. 

And  now  on   each   Communion-day,  when   gathered 
at  our  place, 


264  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  little  fellow  seems  to  come  and  show  his  smiling 

face; 
And   as   we    take    the   bread   and  wine   that   show  a 

Saviour's  love, 
We  long  sometimes  to  take  them  new  with  our  dear 

boy  above, 
And  think  if  'twere  so  sweet  below  to  sit  beside  us 

even, 
What   ecstasy   'twill   be   for    us   to   sit  with   him    in 

Heaven. 


CHARLIE   AT    ST.    PETER'S. 

THE  one  who's  been  beyond   the    sea  and  travelled 

and  explored 
The  almost  countless  realms  that  deck  old  Europe's 

checker-board, 

Will  ne'er  forget  how,  everywhere  as  busily  as  bees, 
Officials  used   to   hail   him  with  "Your  passports,  if 

you  please." 

And  if  a  city  was  in  sight  or  village  came  in  view, 
A  passport  only  oped  the  gate  and  let  the  traveller 

through  ; 
And  when  he  entered  a   hotel  for  food   or   sleep  or 

ease, 
Ere  getting  either,  he  must  hear,   "  Your  passport, 

if  you  please." 


OUR    CHARLIE.  265 

And  if  beneath  Italian  skies  and  midst  Italian  scenes, 
He  went  to  see  with  curious  eye  what  all  her  magic 

means, 

He  found  almost  at  every  turn  official  beggars  stand, 
And  crying,  "  Passport,  if  you  please,"  thrust  out  the 

eager  hand. 

And  little  Charlie  had  seen   this   repeated  o'er  and 

o'er, 

Since  first  he  set  his  little  foot  upon  a  foreign  shore, 
Until  he  almost  thought  that  when  two  persons  came 

in  sight, 
A  passport  was  the  only  thing  to  make  the  meeting 

right. 

'Twas  when  our  tour  was  lengthened  out  and  reached 
as  far  as  Rome, 

That  we,  one  day,  were  roving  round  beneath'  St. 
Peter's  dome ; 

Our  little  boy  and  little  girl  were  gayly  running 
o'er 

From  side  to  side,  from  end  to  end,  upon  the  mar 
ble  floor, 

While    lookincr   at   the    wonders    there,    stood    little 

O 

groups  around, 

Who  felt,  if  'twas  not  holy,  it  was  really  magic 
ground.  — 


266  OUR    CHARLIE. 


A  man  of  dignified  address  and  very  lofty  mien, 
Apart,  of  course,  from  all  the  rest,  was  in  the  tran 
sept  seen, 
And  any  one,  with   half   an   eye,  would   know   him 

from  that  isle, 

Where  'tis  a  sin  to  crack  a  joke  and  ungenteel  to  smile, 
And  worse  than  all  a  thousand  times,  where  he  might 

chance  to  go, 

To  look  at  one  or  talk  with  one  whose  rank  he  did 
not  know. 

But  Charlie,  never  noticing  such  trivial  things  as 
these, 

Stepped  up  to  him  and  gently  said,  "  Your  passport, 
if  you  please." 

Sir  Dignity  looked  round  surprised,  but  as  he  saw 
the  child, 

With  pleasure  flashing  in  his  eye,  Sir  Buckram  really 
smiled, 

And,  without  knowing  what  he  was,  —  a  peasant  or 
a  peer, 

He  said,  "  My  boy,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  no  pass 
port  here." 

i 

Is  this  a  trifling  incident  ?  O  !  nothing  can  be  truer, 
But  'twas  a  pleasant   beam   of  light  that  beautified 
our  tour ; 


267 

And  it  will  be  a  retrospect  that  ne'er  will  cease  to 

give 
A  thrill  of  pleasure  to  our  hearts  as  long  as  we  shall 

live,  — 
That,  with  his  sunny,  merry  face,  our  Charlie  could 

beguile, 
And   melt    a   frigid    Englishman   until   compelled   to 

smile. 


WHERE    IS    HEAVEN? 

WHERE   is    that   fadeless    Paradise   where    God    has 

built  His  throne  ?   ' 
And    where    He    sits    in    majesty   approachless    and 

alone  ? 
The  contemplative  soul  looks  up  and,  with  a  heart-felt 

sio;h, 

O       ' 

Attempts    to    fancy    where    it    is    within    the    starry 

sk7» 
And  sad  bereavement,  with  its  tears  all  gushing  down 

its  eyes, 
Cries,  Tell  me  where  my  dear  ones  are,  —  O  !  where 

is  Paradise  ? 
They  tell  me  Heaven  is  full  of  love  and  running  o'er 

with  joy, 
And  bliss  ecstatic  is  the  fruit  of  its  divine  employ, 


268  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  beauty  reigns  without  alloy  all  o'er  the  happy 

place, 
And  every  form    of  loveliness    and    every   form    of 

grace, 

And   they    that    rove    around    the    realm    are    unre 
strained  and  free, 
And    are    as    happy    and    content    as    blessed    ones 

can  be, 
And  it  may  be  that  this  and  all  God  teaches  should 

suffice, 
Till    we    get    there,    to    know    about    the    things  of 

Paradise ; 
Yet  wounded  spirits,  from  whose  hearts  beloved  ones 

are  riven, 
And  who  have  gone,  they  feel  assured,  to  happiness 

and  Heaven, 
Will  ask  themselves,  will  ask  the  learned,  will  ask 

the  Book  of  Love, 
O  !  where  is  Heaven,  that  blissful  place,  within  the 

realms  above  ? 

The  mother,  when   her  only  son   has   gone   away  to 

roam, 
Feels  very  anxious  till  she  knows  that  he  has  found 

a  home, 
And  yet  her  anxious  hopes  and  fears  have  not  their 

mission  done, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  269 

Until  assured  her  son  has  found  a  sweet  and  happy- 
one, 
Nor  then  is  free  from  anxious   thought  and  many  a 

fear  and  care,  — 
She  wants  to  know  not  only  what  that  sweet  home 

is,  but  where  ; 
Then    with    the    map    upon    her    knee,    the    mother 

ceases  not, 
Until    she's    searched   it    through   and    through    and 

found  the  very  spot, 
And    then    one    less   uncertainty    being   left    her   to 

annoy, 
She  plants  herself  upon  that  spot  and  looks  upon  her 

boy; 
So,  when  our  dear  ones  flee  away  and  we,  with  tear 

ful  eyes, 
Look  up  and  try,  alas !  to  trace  the  travellers  to  the 

skies, 

We  feel  intensest  thrills  of  joy,  if,  in  the  starry  air, 
We  can  select  some  azure  spot  and  feel  that  Heaven 

is  there; 
Then   'twould  be   easier  with   that  point  in   yonder 

blue  arch  given, 
Upon    imagination's    wings    to    speed    our    flight   to 

Heaven. 

The  glittering  hosts  that  gem   the   sky  beneath   the 
swelling  arch 


270  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Are,  day  by  day  and  night  by  night,  forever  on  the 

march, 
And  planets,  stars,  and  satellites  appear  to  shoot  and 

% 
Around  one  common  central  point,  far  distant  in  the 

sky; 

And  though  around  each  central  sun,  its  own  fair 
planets  move, 

And  satellites  their  planets  gird,  each  in  its  destined 
groove, 

Yet  every  bright  and  central  star,  with  all  its  glit 
tering  train, 

Is  sailing  round  the  centre  of  God's  limitless  do 
main, 

And  there,  methinks,  (it  must  be  so,)  amidst  the 
starry  skies, 

Right  in  the  centre  of  it  all,  must  be  that  Paradise. 

And  there  Omnipotence  sits  down  upon  His  great 
White  Throne, 

And  holds  each  globe  within  its  orb  unaided  and 
alone, 

And  though  in  millions  far  too  great  for  finite  minds 
to  read, 

And  sailing  some  at  snail-like  pace  and  some  at  light 
ning  speed  ; 

And  though  their  orbs  run  every  way,  like  huge 
eccentric  things, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  271 

As  though  all  space  were  rudely  piled  and  filled  with 

golden  rings, 
Yet  though  these  orbits  cross  and  twine  in  countless 

shapes  and  ways, 
And  form  to  every  eye,  but  God's,  a  giddy,  tangled 

maze,  — 
And  though  these  heavenly  travellers  fly,  within  their 

several  spheres, 
In  rounds  that   take    sometimes  a  month,  sometimes 

ten  thousand  years, 
And    comets,    rocket-like,    shoot    out    among    those 

countless  orbs, 
Without    one   jar,   although    their   flight   a  thousand 

years  absorbs,  — 

Yet  not  one  single  satellite,  one  planet,  or  one  star 
Has  e'er  received,  since  they  began,  one  unintended 

Jar> 

And  beauty  and  sublimity,  enchanting  and  divine, 
Start  forth  in  all  their  loveliness,  whene'er  they  sail 

or  shine. 

And    thus    God    sits   in    majesty   within   that   happy 

place, 
The  centre  of  uncounted  worlds  that  fill  unbounded 

space ; 
And    that    unfading   Paradise    is,   O!    how   sweetly! 

wove 


272  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Of  everything  in  all  these  worlds  the  happy  dwell 
ers  love, 

And  whatsoe'er  is  beautiful  and  good  and  sweet  and 
fair 

In  all  these  worlds  that  sail  around,  its  archetype  is 
there ; 

And  when  the  good  from  all  these  spheres  go  up  to 
swell  Heaven's  host, 

They'll  find  the  things  they  loved  within  their  native 
planets  most. 

And  there  the  Triune  God  sits  down,  its  centre  and 

its  soul, 
And  sees  each  atom  and  each  world  throughout  the 

boundless  whole, 
While  round  him  in  ecstatic  groups  the  white-robed 

spirits  stand, 
His    ransomed   children,  all    safe    home,    within    the 

promised  land. 


STUDIES    OF    HEAVEN. 

COME,  mourner,  come,  and  let  us   on  Imagination's 

wings 
Sail  up,  alighting  midst  this  host,  before  the  King  of 

Kings  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  273 

Where'er  you  look,  above,  below,  or  at   each  angle 

round, 
Majestic  beauty,  grandeur,  grace,  fill  full  the  hallowed 

ground ;  — 
See    how  the   globes  in  graceful   curves   of  faultless 

beauty  move, 

Each  rolling  on  in  majesty  in  its  aerial  groove, 
In  curves  of  every  shape  and  size  that  Mathematics 

sweeps, 
With  speed  as  various  in  degree  as  wondrous  Motion 

keeps. 
And  yet,  O  !  how  harmoniously  they  shoot  and  float 

and  roll, 

Without  a  single  jar  or  clash  throughout  the  bound 
less  whole  ! 
And  how  the  gorgeous  spectacle,  evolving  something 

new, 
Brings  out  of  this  unbounded  maze  new  mazes    into 

O 

view  ! 
And  change  on  change  shall  never  cease  all  through 

the  magic  whole, 
While  long  eternity  shall  through  its  endless  cycles 

roll, 
And  never  through  eternal  years  just  such  a  scene 

as  this 
Shall  meet  the  gaze  of  those  that  look  from  that  sweet 

home  of  bliss. 

18 


27  4  OUR    CHARLIE. 

For  lo !  the  scene  is  shifting  yet,  e'en  while  we  stand 
and  gaze, 

And  now  and  now  and  now  and  now  evolves  a  new- 
formed  maze  ; 

And  now  the  great  Artificer,  perhaps,  holds  out  His 
hand, 

And  out  of  nothing  forms  a  world  of  air  and  sea  and 
land, 

And  hurls  it  out  among  the  rest  without  endanger 
ing  one, 

In  graceful  curve  within  the  sphere  of  its  predestined 
sun,  — 

In  just  the  right  direction  sent  and  right  momentum 
given, 

To  have  it  lodge  within  the  path  designed  for  it  in 
Heaven,  — 

And  then,  perhaps,  a  silver  moon  which,  from  his 
fingers  hurled, 

Flies  out  and  takes  its  destined  path  around  its  des 
tined  world,  — 

Or.  golden  ring  that  sails  away  exactly  where  'tis 
sent, 

Till  it  begirts,  like  Saturn's  ring,  the  world  for  which 
'twas  meant ; 

And  soon  as  these  new  bodies  gain  their  stations  in 
the  sky, 

And  in  their  new-born  orbits  have  begun  to  sail  and 

fly, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  275 

The  starry  hosts  all  o'er  His  realms  the  song  of  wel 
come  sing, 

And  all  his  children  shout  for  joy  till  Heaven's  old 
arches  ring. 

And  so  the  Godhead  every  day  bids  novel  magic 
start, 

With  some  new  thoughts  to  fill  the  mind,  with  some 
new  thrills,  the  heart ; 

The  groupings  of  created  things,  so  changing  to  the 
view, 

Are  constantly  regrouping  and  producing  something 
new, 

And  new  creations,  every  hour,  meet  their  admiring 
gaze, 

Each,  grand,  and  making  still  more  grand  the  uni 
versal  maze  ; 

And  when  our  lost  ones  leave  poor  earth,  on  angel- 
wings  they  soar, 

And  love-attracted  gayly  light  on  that  enchanting 
shore ; 

There  everything  Jehovah  does  His  happy  children 
view, 

Both  when  he  groups  created  things  and  when  creat 
ing  new. 

He  shows  them  how  that  wondrous  power  that  New 
ton  sought,  and  found 


276  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Draws  everything  to  everything  the  universe  around  ; 
He  shows  them  each  phenomenon   in   Nature's  wide 

domain, 
That  sages  sought  and  toiled  to  find,  but  sought  and 

toiled  in  vain  ; 
And  how  the  little  tiny  seed,  dropped  heedless  in  the 

earth, 
Is  made  to  warm  and  swell  and  burst  and  gayly  start 

to  birth  ; 
And  how  all  over  Nature's  face,  in  garden,  field,  and 

grove, 
Each   little    fibrous  thread    is    spun   and  into  foliage 

wove  ; 
And    how   each   thing   that   vegetates,    whate'er   the 

species  be, 
Has  just  the  leaf,  in  form  and  size,  of  such  a  plant 

or  tree  ; 
And  how  each  opening  bud,  when  kissed  by  air  and 

sun  and  dew, 
Expands,  like  its   own   kindred   flower,  in  fragrance, 

shape,  and  hue  ; 
And  how  the  tints  awaked  to  life  that  on  the  petals 

blush, 
Are  always  just  the  tints  and  hues  belonging  to  that 

bush; 
And  how,  although  the   queenly  rose   has   countless 

tribes  and  castes, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  277 

The    normal     idiosyncrasy    through    each    gradation 

lasts  ; 
And    how    each    plant    and    tree    and    flower,    when 

touched  by  human  skill, 
Grows  fairer,  lovelier,   sweeter  far,  and  healthier  for 

each  thrill ; 
And  how  it  is  that  every  blow  that  well-aimed  effort 

gives, 
In    fairer    forms    and    lovelier    charms    and    sweeter 

fruitage  lives. 

He  teaches  all  the  lofty  truths  that  learned  chemists 
teach, 

And  all  those  grander,  loftier  ones,  that  lie  beyond 
their  reach  ; 

And  what  the  powers  in  Nature's  own  great  labor 
atory  lurk, 

And  what  the  wonders  they  produce  and«  how  the 
wonders  work. 

He  shows  them  all  the  higher  truths  the  Mathe 
matics  solve, 

And  those,  to  us,  high  mysteries  that  Numbers  can 
evolve  ; 

And  how  the  Science,  so  sublime  when  only  viewed- 
as  man's, 

Mounts  up  to  those  sublimer  heights  by  which  God 
acts  and  plans. 


278  OUR    CHARLIE. 

He  shows  them  those  mysterious  frames  they  used 

on  earth  to  fill, 
And  all  that  seems  so  marvellous  in  beauty,  strength, 

and  skill ; 
And  how,  although  so  curious  made,  a  sluggish  lump 

of  clay 

The  living  spirit  entered  in,  and  set  it  into  play; 
And  how  the  heart,  with  giant  power,  sends  out  the 

purple  flood, 
To   carry   to  each   atom    there    its    own    appropriate 

food  ; 

And  how  it  is  the  unseen  soul  its  own  ideals  sends. 
Until   they   come   out  real  from  the   actor's   finger- 
ends; 
And   how    the    soul's    imaginings    are    vitalized   and 

flung, 

In  all  their  vast  variety,  from  off  the  plastic  tongue ; 
And  how  one  soul  its  magic    flings    like   odors  from 

a  flower, 
Until    another   spirit,   thrilled,  obeys    the    charmer's 

power. 

He  tells  them  why  He   let  the    fiend  within  young 

Eden  go, 
And  sow  within  its  virgin  bowers   the   seeds  of  sin 

and  woe  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  279 

And  why  as  long  as  earth  shall  roll  He  lets  the  seed 

be  sown, 
So  that  not  one  forevermore  should  get  to  Heaven 

alone. 

He  tells  them  why  His  love  permits  a  vicious  squalid 
home 

To  curse  earth's  unborn  innocents  for  centuries  yet 
to  come  ; 

And  why  the  father's  eating  grapes  should,  like  a 
stubborn  wedge, 

Pierce  down  through  future  years  and  set  the  chil 
dren's  teeth  on  edge; 

Why  He  permits  the  ignorant  sire  neglect  the  tender 
minds, 

And  the  poor  children  live  and  die,  coarse  and  unlet 
tered  hinds  ; 

And  why  the  vicious  home  has  power,  with  its  pes 
tiferous  breath, 

To    scatter    'mong    the    coming    crowds    disease    and 

~  <~J 

shame  and  death. 

He   tells   them  how  that   sacred  book,   in  which   are 

kindly  given 
The  most  we  know  of  endless  life  and  all  we  know 

of  Heaven,  — 
Whose    spirit    must    inspire   before   a    single    human 

breast 


280  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Can  throb   within    that   home   of  joy   where   all   are 

good  and  blest,  — 
Is  yet  a  Book   unknown   to   most,  unless  'tis  kindly 

brought 

By  those  who  very  seldom  do  one  duty  as  they  ought ; 
And  why  it  takes,  to  publish  it  to  earth's   remotest 

coast, 
The  sacrifice  of  self  and  gold,  —  two  things  we  love 

the  most. 

He  shows  them  what  the  reason  why  the  wealth  and 

joys  of  earth 
Are    scattered,    it   would   almost    seem,    inversely  as 

man's  worth  ; 
He  shows  them  why  earth's  good  and  ill,  like  shower 

and  sunshine  fall, 

Without  respect  to  character  and  equally  on  all ; 
And  why  the  moral  tares   and  wheat  are    left  alike 

to  grow, 
Although    the    yellow    harvest    be    all    dwarfed    and 

blasted  so ; 
And  why  He   lets  'the   monster  death   in  freak   and 

frenzy  slay 
Whome'er  he   meets  or  wheresoe'er   he   meets  them 

in  the  way ; 
And,  like  a  maniac,  fiercely  hurl   his   poison-pointed 

lance, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  281 

As  if  entirely  purposeless  or  hurling  it  by  chance  ; 
And    why,    lest    human    science    should    succeed    to 

thwart  His  skill, 
He    has    a   thousand,  thousand  ways,   his  mission    to 

fulfil ; 
And  why,  unlike  the  serpent,  which  alarms  before  it 

springs, 
The  monster  oft  gives  no  alarm  until  he   plants  his 

stings  ; 
And  like  rude  boys  that  club  and  stone  the  ripened 

fruits  and  green, 
He  smites  down  infancy  and  age   and  at  each  hour 

between. 

He  tells  them  why  the   world  lived  on   with  but  a 

flickering  flame, 
For  full  four  thousand  years  and  more  before  Messias 

came  ; 
He  shows  the  leaden  power  of  guilt  upon  the  fallen 

race, 
And  how  it  is  the  weight  drops  off,  when  touched  by 

sovereign  grace  ; 
He  shows  how  Love  can  bring  pure  gold  from  only 

worthless  dross, 
And   make    clear   sunshine   chase    away  all   mystery 

from  the  cross ; 
And  this  must  be  -    methinks  it  must  —  the  sweetest 

scene  above, 


282  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  centre  of  the  beautiful,  the  centre  of  all  love, 
Round  which  the  ransomed  oftenest  group,  on  which 

they  oftenest  gaze, 
And  out  of  which  draw  deepest  draughts  of  rapture 

and  amaze. 

He  tells  them  how  the  voice  of  prayer,  when  wafted 
up  to  Heaven, 

Brings  down,  to  soothe  the  sorrowing  heart,  the 
welcome  word  "  forgiven,"  — 

And  prayer,  around  whose  workings  here  such  mid 
night  mysteries  steal, 

Which  human  logic  cannot  solve  but  ransomed 
hearts  can  feel, 

Though  hooted  here  by  human  wit,  will  prove  the 
brightest  gem 

Of  all  the  bright  and  glittering  ones  in  love's  grand 
diadem  ; 

An  angel  brighter  than  the  train  that  on  their  mis 
sions  wait, 

It  takes  the  heart's  petitions  up  and  opes  the  pearly 
gate. 

There's    mystery   writ   on    all    below,    whate'er    the 

object  be, 
And  there's  no  greater,  mistier  one  in  all  the  world 

than  we  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  283 

'Tis  strown  all  o'er  the  outer  world  and  in  each  sense 

that  finds, 
And  there's  a  mystery  in   the  way  it  takes  it  into 

minds, 
And  mystery  in  the  processes  by  which  we  take  the 

whole, 
And  change  it  into  nutriment  to  feed  the   deathless 

soul ; 
And    mystery    on    mystery    would    all    earth's    joys 

derange, 
Were 't   not    that    familiarity   wears   off  whate'er    is 

strange. 
But  up  in   yonder  world  of  bliss,  as   in   this  world 

below, 
There  are,  and  always  will  be,  things  the  spirits  do 

not  know, 

But  fast  as  they  can  master  truth  and  go  to  some 
thing  more, 
The   Heavenly  Teacher  lifts  the  veil  and  helps  the 

truth  explore,  — 
And  long  as  God's  eternal  years  shall  through  their 

cycles  sail, 
Truth  shall  be  ever  throwing  off  her  dark  mysterious 

veil, 
And  fast  as  spirits  can  move  on  in  progress's  swift 

career, 
The  mists  and  clouds   that  veil  the   truth  will   melt 

and  disappear. 


284  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Were  I  to  paint  a  paradise  in  sucli  a  world  as  this, 

That  would  produce  the  sweetest  kind  and  greatest 
sum  of  bliss, 

'Twould  be  where  all  that  walk  its  bowers  are  pol 
ished  and  refined, 

And  there  is  one  perpetual  feast  to  feed  the  heart 
and  mind ;  — 

Not  one  all  smoking  on  the  board,  all  ready  and  pre 
pared, 

Without  one  effort  of  a  guest  by  whom  'tis  to  be 
shared, 

But  which  the  guest  must  dig  and  reap,  and  gather, 
cull,  and  glean, 

And  after  doing  all  the  rest  attend  to  the  cuisine. 

Where'er  we   mingle  with  the  race,  we  always  find 

it  true, 
That  they  are  not  the  happiest  ones  who  have  the 

least  to  do  ; 
And  human  progress  does  not  move  so  merrily  and 

fleet, 
Where  man  has  little  else  to  do  except  to  pluck  and 

eat. 

'Tis  not  beneath  the  warmest  sun  nor  in  the  gayest 
zone, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  285 

Where  Nature  lias,  with  liberal  hand,  her  choicest 
blessings  strown, 

Where  with  the  least  amount  of  work  and  least 
amount  of  care, 

The  dwellers  have  enough  to  eat  and  all  they  want 
to  wear,  — 

'Tis  not  in  such  a  sunny  clime,  in  such  a  gorgeous 
place, 

That  we  should  seek  and  hope  to  find  the  noblest 
of  the  race. 

The  chilly  air  and  rocky  shore  and  sterile  vale  and 
hill, 

Which  Agriculture's  hardy  sons  inspire,  subdue,  and 
till,  - 

'Tis  there  the  one  who  goes  and  seeks  by  far  the 
oftenest  finds 

The  healthiest  frames,  the  purest  hearts,  the  loftiest, 
strongest  minds. 

The  normal  state  of  haughty  man,  though  at  crea 
tion's  head, 

Is  this,  that  every  man  below  must  work  and  earn 
his  bread  ; 

And  not  a  man,  from  Adam  down,  whate'er  his  sta 
tion  be, 

Has  broke  the  law  and  yet  escaped  the  solemn  pen 
alty. 

The  worker  gets  a  feast  from  both,  the  banquet  and 

o 

employ, 


286  OUR    CHARLIE, 

The  idler,  too,  may  get  his  bread,  but  lose  the  extra 

j°y; 

No   matter    what    the    man    possess,    a    hovel    or    a 

throne, 
God's    choicest    blessings    never   fall    upon    an    idle 

drone. 

O !    in    that   upper   Paradise    where    Charlie's   living 

now, 
With  his  SAveet  harp  within  his  hand  and  crown  upon 

his  brow, 

I  know   there  must  be  all   they  want  for   one  per 
petual  feast,  — 
Enough  of  what  the  loftiest  want,  enough    of  what 

the  least; 
But  yet  I  do  not  think  the  feast  smokes  on  the  table 

there, 
Without,  upon  the  feaster's  part,  a  single  thought  or 

care. 
I  do  not  think  that  God  permits  a  drivelling  moral 

drone, 
To  take  a  seat  beside  His  board  or  bow  before  His 

throne, 
From  that   blest  fund  where   all    they  need   and  all 

they  wish  is  given, 
The    spirits    get    a    full    supply    to    banquet    on    in 

Heaven  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  287 

But  yet,  to  get  the  richest  feast  in  those  enchanting 

bowers 
Requires    the     constant    exercise    of   all    the    spirit's 

powers. 

I   love   to   think   that  my  dear  boy,  at   every   step 

above, 
Finds  some  ne\v  truth  to  think  about  and  some  new 

thing  to  love, 
And,   unlike   China's   Buddhist  Priests,  —  who  think 

the  height  of  joy 
Is  where  there's  not  one  wave  of  thought  nor  ripple 

of  employ,  — 
My  Charlie,  in  his  home  of  bliss,  at  every  step  and 

turn, 
Finds    some    new  beauty  to   admire    and    some   new 

truth  to  learn, 
And  that   his   little    crystal   mind,   so  active   and   so 

bright, 
Is  ceaselessly  expanding  there  and  gathering  skill  and 

might ; 
And  that  kind  heart,  so  sweet  below,  grows  sweeter 

far  above, 
Where  everything  it  feeds  upon  is  beauty,  goodness, 

love ; 
And  as  he   goes  from  truth   to   truth   and  lifts  the 

c5 

sable  pall, 


288  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  mystery  throws  o'er  virgin  ore,  he  understands 

it  all; 
And  from  the   crude  materials   in   Beauty's  circling 

arms, 
The    sweet  inventor   hourly   weaves   fresh    novelties 

and  charms. 

Dear   boy,   while  bee-like   flitting   round  in    Heaven 

from  gem  to  gem, 

He  gets  the  sweetest  nectar  from  the  Rose  of  Beth 
lehem  ; 
He    recollects    the    story    well,    without    a    comma's 

loss, 
About  that  wondrous,  wondrous    Babe    that  suffered 

on  the  cross ; 
He'd  seen  the   little    Jesus   oft   beneath    St.   Peter's 

dome, 
He'd  seen  Him  in  the  Vatican  and  every  church  at 

Rome  ; 
He'd  seen  him  almost  everywhere  that  He  had  been 

to  search, — 
In    almost   every    gallery,    and    palace,    tower,    and 

church  ; 
And  when   returning  home   again,    our  merry  little 

one 
Still    saw   that   same    mysterious   Madonna   and   her 

son  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  289 

And  now  the  very  central  charm  of  that  enchanting 
scene 

Is  that  same  Babe  of  Bethlehem,  that  humble  Naz- 
arene. 

The  Man  of  Sorrows,  who  alone  the  dreadful  wine 
press  trod, 

Is  now  the  central  point  in  Heaven,  enthroned  a 
very  God ; 

And  though  His  tender  bosom  here  was  wont  to  throb 
with  joy, 

Whene'er  he  heard  us  tell  the  tale  of  Mary  and  her  boy, 

Yet  now  that  he  beholds  the  child  on  glory's  topmost 
height, 

His    throbbing    bosom    overflows    with    wonder    and 

O 

delight ; 
But  when  he  sees  that  Heaven  itself,  that  piire  and 

happy  place, 
Has  not  a  charm,  but  lo !  it  is  the  radiance  from  His 

face, 
And  as,  if  yonder  glorious  sun  were  blotted  from  its 

sphere, 
'Twould  blot  out  every  pleasant  thing   of  love  and 

beauty  here, 
So  should  that  Blest  One  veil  His  face  or  from  the 

scene  remove, 
There  would  be  nothing  left  to  charm  and  nothing 

left  to  love ; 

19 


290  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  thus  from  Charlie's  mild  blue  eyes  the  tears  of 

rapture  run, 
That   he   can  rove  that   glorious   place  with   Mary's 

spotless  son. 

And  so  upon  the  wings  of  thought  we  daily  mount 
and  fly, 

And  view  the  scenes  of  Paradise  with  .Faith's  de 
lighted  eye  ; 

And  if  we  find  a  ray  of  light  from  some  undoubted 

v 

source, 
That    might    direct    the    mind    aright    in    its    aerial 

course, 
We  take  it  with  a  grateful  heart,  all  brimming  o'er 

with  joy, 
And  fly  on  buoyant  wings  aloft  to  find  our  sainted 

boy. 

God  has  some  shining  rays  of  truth  about  Heaven's 

glories  given, 
And  out  of  these  we  try  to  weave  our  little  Charlie's 

Heaven  ; 
And  as  his  pure  and  tender  heart  is  graven  on  our 

mind, 
And   every  pleasant   angel-trait   is   in    our  memories 

shrined, 
We  have  materials  all  supplied  to  paint  his  home  of 


OUR    CHARLIE.  291 

And   midst  its  groves  and   in   its    bowers,  our   little 

cherub  boy ; 
And    often    as    we    think    and    gaze    in    meditative 

mood, 
It  never  seems  to  do  us  harm,  —  it  always   does   us 

good. 


IS    IT    A    BLESSING    TO    HAVE    HAD    SUCH    A    BOY    AND 
THEN    LOST    HIM? 

WHEN  the  pure  love-flake  fell  from  Heaven,  what 
rapture  filled  the  heart ! 

When  it  dissolved  and  rose  again,  how  very  keen  the 
smart ! 

That  smart  is  rankling  in  our  hearts  with  all  its 
anguish  still, 

And  has  the  rapture  in  our  breasts  forever  ceased  to 
thrill? 

We  never  shall  forget  the  pangs  while  we  remember 
aught, 

And  shall  the  rapture  at  the  gift  be  evermore  for 
got? 

O !  no,  the  rapture  that  he  gave,  and  still  his  mem 
ory  gives, 

Will  live  and  thrill  our  hearts  as  long  as  he  that 
woke  it  lives. 


292  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But  the  keen  anguish  from  the   blow  that  rent   the 

ties  in  twain 
Will  only  throb  a  few  short  years  till  we  shall  meet 

again ; 
And   thus    the    bliss   excels   the   woe   from   Charlie's 

birth  and  death, 
As  much  as  long  eternity  exceeds  a  fleeting  breath. 


THE    BLESSING. 

THE  gentle  clews  of  eventide  that  sail  so  soft  below, 

That  light  on  every  living  thing  and  set  it  all  aglow, 

That  string  with  pearls  the  blades  of  grass  and  set 
the  leaves  with  gems, 

And  crown  the  velvet  shrubs  and  trees  with  spar 
kling  diadems ; 

And  when  the  morning  sun  comes  up  and  Nature 
looks  as  fair 

As  if  an  angel  had  been  down  and  scattered  jewels 
there, 

The  glittering  dew-drops,  solar-kissed,  on  new-born 
pinions  rise, 

And  while  we're  gazing,  disappear  and  seek  their 
native  skies  ; 

The  day-god  kissed,  and  up  they  rose  on  tender  new 
born  wing, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  293 

But  did  not  bear  the  blessing  off  that  they  had  come 

to  bring, — 

The  velvet  verdure,  dew-kissed,  has  a  greener  man 
tle  o'er, 
And    every    floweret    wears    a    smile    diviner    than 

before ; 
And  could  that  landscape  tell  its  thanks,  'twould  all 

the  summer  through 
Keep  singing  every  day  and  night  how  much  it  owes 

the  dew ; 
So,  like    a    genial    drop   of  dew  sent    sweetly   from 

above, 
Our  Charlie  came,  a  precious  gem,  to  fill  our  hearts 

with  love,  — 

So  sweet,  the  love-beams  from  his  face  made  happi 
ness  more  bright, 
And  fringed  each  cloud  of  sorrow  with  a  more  than 

golden  light ; 
And  most   our  hearts  were   thrilled   by  his,  so  pure 

and  so  refined, 
And  our  minds  brightened  daily  with  the  brightness 

of  his  mind,  — 
And  as  the  florist  grows  more  pure  by  talking  with 

the  flowers, 
So    from    sweet    converse,    day    by    day,    his    spirit 

sweetened  ours. 


294  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But  God   looked   down,  —  we   thought   He  frowned, 

but  now  we  know  he  smiled, — 
And  sent  some  little  cherubs  down  to  bear  aloft  our 

child ; 

And,  like  a  crystal  drop  of  dew,  kissed  by  the  morn 
ing  sun, 
Unseen  by  all  but  angel-eyes,  sailed  up   our  darling 

one ; 
And  so  the  love-beams  from  his  face   have  vanished 

quite  away, 

But  not  a  single  little  thrill  he  ever  set  in  play ; 
And  home,  e?en  now,  though  full  of  tears,  has  many 

a  gem  of  joy, 
The  fruits  of  those  few  fleeting  years  so  hallowed  by 

our  boy  ; 
And  although  frailties,   errors,   stains,  will   with   our 

pleasures  come, 
Among  the  dear  and  pleasant  things  that  cluster  in 

our  home, — 

Yet  if  a  heavenly  visitant   should  in   our  home   ap 
pear, 
Methinks  he'd  say,  from  what  he  saw,  "  An  angel  has 

been  here." 
Our  very  beings   and   our   boy's    have   so   together 

grown, 
He'd   find,   perhaps,   some   traits    of  his   transplanted 

to  our  own  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  295 

And  as  the  air  all  odorless  breathes  through  earth's 

lovely  bowers, 
And  then  comes   out  and  passes  on  all  redolent   of 

flowers,  — 
So  would  he  find  that  our  sweet  home  wears  a  more 

charming  air, 

Because   our  little   sainted  boy  left  so  much  sweet 
ness  there : 
He'd  see  in  oil  and  photograph,  in  many  a  hallowed 

place, 
The   picture    of  a   little   boy  with  just  the   sweetest 

face  ; 
Andv  though  its  archetype  not  here  in  our  domestic 

bowers, 
He'd,  by  its  very  features,   know  the  little   one  was 

ours. 
He  looks  within  our  heart  of  hearts  and  on  his  little 

throne, 
Sees,  midst  the  life-throbs  fluttering  there,  our  sainted 

little  one  ; 
And  many  a  little  pleasant  thing  that  visitant  would 

trace 
Back    to    that    charming    little    boy    that    wore    that 

pleasant  face. 
O  !  yes,  as  long  as  we  shall  live,  'twill  be  a  source 

of  joy, 
That  God,  though  for  so  short  a  time,  gave    us   so 

sweet  a  boy ; 


296  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  if  we   ever  reach    the    skies  with    all    our   sins 

forgiven, 
And  look  to  see   what   angel   'twas   attracted   us   to 

Heaven, 
'Twill  be  the  one  who  came  to  earth  and  won  us  by 

His  love, 
And  then  flew  up  attracting  us  to  follow  him  above. 


FRUITS    OF    AFFLICTION. 

How   sweet   the   fruits    of  grief  can    be    within    the 

humble  breast, 
How  Sorrow  can,  if  used  aright,  make  its   recipient 

blest ! 
Affliction's  rude,  untender  hand,  if  we   but  kiss  the 

rod, 
Grows  velvet,  as  we  grasp  it  tight,  and  leads  us  up 

to  God  ; 
But  e'en  the  softest  hand  she  has  grows  calloused  to 

the  one 
Who  will  not  say  or  try  to  say,  "  Thy  will,  O  God, 

be  done." 
God's  yoke  is  easy  to  the  neck,  and  burden  —  it  is 

light 
To  those  who  freely  take  them  up  and  wear  and  bear 

them  right, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  297 

While  those  who  will  not  take  the  yoke,  nor  yet  the 

burden  bear, 
Will  have  more  crushing  loads   to   take   and   galling 

chains  to  wear; 
For  oftener  upon  sorrow's  wings  than  gladness'  wings 

we  fly, 
And  light  among  the  ransomed  ones  above  the  starry 

sky. 

Prosperity,  Calypso-like,  with  all  its  merry  cheer, 
Oft  captivates    the    noblest  minds  and  firmly  chains 

them  here ; 
Affliction  smites,  and  then  we  learn  how  impotent  is 

earth, 
And  then  we  feel  that  we  must   seek  for  things  of 

nobler  worth ; 
And  then  we  find  how  wise   He  was,  more  plainly 

every  day, 
Both  when  He  gave  the  little  gem  and  took  the  gem 

away,  — 
The  giving  and  the  taking  both  are  tokens  of  His 

love, 
To  show  how  charming,  even   here,   the    spirits    are 

above  ; 
And  if  so  happy  even   here    'twas   almost   death   to 

part, 
What  bliss  'twill  be  in  Heaven  to  live,  united  heart 

to  heart. 


298  OUR    CHARLIE. 


DO    SPIRITS    VISIT    US    HERE? 

Is  it  a  myth  of  some  wild  bard  that  unseen  spirits 

walk 
Among   old    scenes,    and   with    old   friends  in   sweet 

communion  talk  ? 
And  though  we  know  not,  while  immersed  in  trials, 

toils,  and  cares, 
Our  wearied  spirits  oftentimes  are  soothed  and  calmed 

by  theirs ; 
And  when,   'midst   doubts   and   fears,   alas!    through 

devious  ways  we  grope, 
They  come  unseen,  but  not  unfelt,  and  whisper  joy 

and  hope. 

Time  was,  so   says  the   Book  of  God,   when  spirits 

did  appear, 
And    held   communion    with    their   friends    who   still 

were  lingering  here ; 
And  that  the    spirits    come    to    earth   and   mix  with 

mortal  men 
Is  not  a  whit  more  difficult   in   modern   times   than 

then. 
When  through  the   senses  that  we  use  for  all  life's 

work  below, 
A  record's  made  on  memory's  scroll,  it  ne'er  will  let 

it  go,— 


OUR    CHARLIE.  299 

And  when  life's  fitful  dream  is  o'er,  and  we  depart 

at  last, 
'Twill  still,  in  every  tracery,  bear  the  record  of  the 

past. 
Each  sense  will  die,  whene'er  the  work  of  this  fleet 

life  is  through, 
For  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb  there's  nought  for 

it  to  do  ; 
For  every  power  of  all  the  powers  that  go  to  make 

a  soul 
Will  be  as  fresh  and   bright  as   now,  while    endless 

•    ages  roll,  — 
Nay,  more    than   that,  more  fresh   and   bright,   more 

vigorous  and  devout, 
At  every  forward  step  it  takes  or  problem  it  works 

out. 

God  makes  us  social  beings  here  with  interests  inter 
wove,  — 
I    do   not    think   'twill    be    so    here    and    not    be    so 

above  ; 
This    world  would   be    a    dreary   place,   if    insulated 

each, 
And  no   electric  spark   of  love  from  heart   to  heart 

could  reach, 
And  Heaven  would  be  no  Paradise  and  Paradise  no 

Heaven, 
Were   that   electric  current  which   unites  the  spirits 

riven ; 


300  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Communings  here  from  soul  to  soul  are  made  to  ebb 

and  flow 
Through  those  mysterious  unseen  ducts  called  senses 

here  below,  — 
These,  like  the  ducts  of  proud  old  Rome,  all  wrecked 

and  ruined,  spread 

O'er  earth's  campagna  where  repose  her  silent  moul 
dering  dead ; 
But   when  a  spirit  freed  from    earth    a   sister    spirit 

meets, 
And   holds   sweet  converse   as  they   walk  along   the 

golden  streets, 
They   need   no    sense  to   go   between    to   bring   and 

carry  thought, 
For   truth   is   automatic  where  rude  matter  holds  it 

not. 
The  spirit  here,  within  its  clay,  gets  snugly  out  of 

view, 
And   through  the   senses,   sends  abroad  the  false  as 

well  as  true, — 
But  there,  transparent  as  the  air,  if  falsehood  brings 

a  mote, 

The  dullest  soul  in  Paradise  can  plainly  see  it  float, 
And,   therefore,  'tis  a  metaphor   we  utter  when  we 

say, 

That  beings  with   each  other  talk  within  the  realms 
of  day ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  301 

The  spirits  up  in  Paradise  are  what  they  seem 
to  be, 

For  character,  and  nothing  else,  those  blessed  beings 
see. 

If  spirits  have  to  tell  their  thoughts  or  others  know 
them  not, 

Then  there,  as  here,  there's  such  a  thing  as  coun 
terfeiting  thought; 

And  so  among  those  happy  ones  that  through  those 
mansions  flit, 

There  may  be  those,  as  here  below,  who  play  the 
hypocrite. 

If  spirits  are  above  the  sky  transparent  as  the  light, 
And  every  moral  lineament  is  all  portrayed  to  sight, 
Will  it  not  follow  that  among  the  good  and  great 

and  blest, 
Whate'er  one  knows  is  known  and  seen  and  felt  by 

all  the  rest  ? 

Go  to  that  wondrous  thing  of  Art  by  Raphael's  pen 
cil  traced, 

The  brightest,  sweetest,  richest  gem  of  all  earth's 
works  of  taste ; 

The  slightest  glance  reveals  the  fact  that  'tis  a  gem 
of  Art, 

That,  once  imprinted,  always  charms  and  captivates 
the  heart; 


302  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But  he  that  drinks  in  all  its  charms  must  come  and 

come  and  come, 
And   new    discoveries    every   day   are    added   to   the 

sum ; 
And  though  each  charm  was  e'en  at  first  as  open  to 

the  view, 
We  had  to  gaze,  how  oft !  and  long  before  we  saw 

it  through. 

In  Heaven,  no  less  than  on  the  earth,  there  must  be 

different  grades, 
And   acquisitions    even    there    of  different   hues    and 

shades  ; 
For  though  transparent  as  the  air,  e'en   to  its  finest 

thread, 

They  cannot  learn  the  lesson  there   unless  the  les 
son's  read, — 
Like   the   chef  d'oeuvre  of  Raphael's  brush,  or  like   a 

learned  book, 
They  can't  be  mastered  by  a  glance  or  by  a  hasty 

look. 
One  hour  of  social  converse  with  the  spirit  of  Saint 

Paul 
Would  show  a  thousand,  thousand  charms,  it  would 

not  show  them  all ; 
And  though  transparent  as  the  light  and  open  to  the 

view, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  303 

It  might  consume  a  thousand  years  to  read  its  beau 
ties  through. 

O !  when  our  little  cherub  rose  and  soared  to  fields 

above, 
I  know  he   must  have    looked  for    John   and  talked 

with  him  of  love; 
And  save  with  Him  whom  all  adore,  admire,  and  love 

the  best, 
He  talks  with  John  and  those  like  John,  far  oftener 

than  the  rest. 
But  tell  me,  does   our  Charlie  not  sometimes    come 

down  below, 
And  walk  with  us  and  talk  with  us  who  used  to  love 

him  so  ? 
Our  thoughts  go  daily  up  to  him  while  roving  midst 

Heaven's  bowers, 
And  does  he  never  come  to  us  and  rove  with  us  in 

ours  ? 
Our    spirits    daily   mount    to   him   within   his   happy 

sphere, 
And  does  his  spirit  ne'er  come  down  and  calmly  join 

us  here  ? 
Who  doubts  the  pure  ones  think  of  us  ?  and  what  is 

thinking  there 
But    going    out    and    visiting    the    objects    of    their 

care  ? 


304  OUR    CHARLIE. 

God  fills  all  space  and,  therefore,  nought  where'er  the 
objects  lie 

Can  ever  be  beyond  the  reach  of  His  all-seeing  eye, 

But  disembodied  spirits,  like  embodied  ones  below, 

Must  list,  to  hear,  must  look,  to  see,  and  learn  a 
thing,  to  know; 

And  everything  on  memory's  map  inwoven  and  in 
wrought, 

Whene'er  they  wish,  they  go  to  see  upon  the  wings 
of  thought ; 

The  laws  of  mind  are  always  like,  whate'er  the 
actor  be, 

Both  when  encumbered  with  the  flesh  and  when 
entirely  free. 

When  thoughts  like  these   come   o'er  our  minds,  we 

feel  it  must  be  so, 
And    Charlie    does  come   home  to  see    the    ones   he 

loved  below  ; 
We  think  that  Reason  is  not  shamed,  nor  Common 

Sense  abused, 
To  say  that  spirits  walk  the   earth  exactly  as  they 

used. 
Nor    do    I   think    that  'tis   a  weak   and  superstitious 

thought, 
By     dreamy    musing     conjured    up    or     silly    fancy 

wrought, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  305 

That,   sometimes,    in    our   tears  we've  felt   an   inner 

peace  and  joy, 
That  must  have  been  the  heavenly  fruit  of  converse 

with  our  boy. 


ALL    MYSTERIES    EXPLAINED    IN    HEAVEN. 

I  LOVE  to  think  that  when  I  to  my  Father's  house 

return, 
There'll  be  so  many  glorious  truth;;  that  I  shall  have 

to  learn  ; 

There'll  be  so  many  mysteries  unfathomed  here  below, 
That  I  shall  have   to  fathom  there  and  study  till  ] 

know; 
And    things    that    here    seemed    strange    or  wrong, 

within  Heaven's  clearer  light, 
Prove  pure  and  faultless  harmonies  and  all  exactly 

right; 
And  that  the  ills  that  checker  life  and  shorten  and 

annoy, 
Were  but  the  seeds,  the  germs,  the  buds  of  Heaven's 

unending  joy, 
And  that  had  one  been  blotted  out  or  one  had  never 

been, 

Life  would  have  been  a  meaningless  and  inharmonious 
scene. 
20 


306  OUR    CHARLIE. 

I  love  to  think  that  every  jar  upon  my  heart-strings 

here, 
That  caused  my  breast  to  heave  a  sigh  or  eye  to  drop 

a  tear, 
Is  but  the  tuning  of  those  strings,  so  dissonant   and 

wrong, 
That  I  might  be  prepared  to  sing  Heaven's  high  and 

holy  song. 

I   love    to  think,  in    yonder  world,   one    element   of 

bliss 
Will  be  to  fathom  and  unfold  the  mysteries  seen  in 

this  ; 
And  everything  that  pains  us   here   and   everything 

that  grieves, 

And  every  blight  and  mildew  dropped  on  hope's  ex 
panding  leaves, 
And  every  hoary  frost   that   came    to    our   domestic 

bowers, 
That  nipped  the  buds  or  killed  the  leaves  or  scathed 

the  merry  flowers, 
Will  prove  to  be  the  richest  gifts  our  Father  could 

have  given, 
The  seedlings  of  the  sweetest  charms  attracting  us  to 

Heaven ; 
And  all  the  good  and  ill  of  life,  its  pleastires  and  its 

pains, 

* 


OUR    CHARLIE.  307 

Its  smiles  and   tears,  its   hopes   and  fears,  its  losses 

and  its  gains, 
That  seemed  so  chance-directed  here  or  meaningless 

O 

or  wrong, 

Were  but  the  prelude  to  prepare  for  joy's  immortal 
song. 

I   love    to   think,   when    I    sit    down,    if   I    shall   sit 

above, 
The  good  and  ill  of  life  will  seem  alike  the  gems  of 

love  j 
And  I   shall  see   exactly  why,  to  draw  my  heart  to 

j°y» 

My  Father  had  to  snatch  from  me  my  darling  little 
boy. 

I  love  to  think  the  time  will  come  when  I  shall  see 

and  know, 
That  it  was  best,  and  why  'twas  best,  that  mysteries 

reigned  below ; 
And  that  within  the   field  of  truth,  spread   out   on 

every  hand, 
So    much    we    saw   or   could   not    see    or   could   not 

understand ; 
And  it  may  be  that  it  will  prove  (the  strangest  thing 

of  all) 
That,   thouah    with    minds    of   so   much   power,    our 

"  o 

conquests  were  so  small. 


308  OUR    CHARLIE. 

I  love  to  think  that  I  shall  know  how  God,  with  err- 
less  skill, 

Could  harmony  from  discord  bring  and  happiness  from 
ill, 

And  make  the  very  wrath  of  man,  howe'er  demoniac 
even, 

Work  out  the  kind  designs  of  love  in  gathering  souls 
to  Heaven. 

I  love    to   think   that   I   may   find  our   fimteness   in 

this 
May  work  out  joy,  intenser  joy,  within  the  world  of 

bliss ; 
The  sweetest  thrills  of  heavenly  joy  in    bosoms    up 

above 
Must  be  the  thrill  that  flutters  from  the  living  pulse 

of  love  ; 
And  filial  love  is  ne'er  so  great  and  ne'er  so   pure 

and  sweet, 
As    when    the    child    sits    learning    at    the    teaching 

father's  feet. 
Could  we    the   mysteries   all   explain   and   facts   and 

truths  discern, 
And   all   we've  ever   got  to   learn   by   thought   and 

study  learn, 

Methinks,  'twould  wipe  out  faith  entire,  —  the  sweet 
est  viand  given 


OUR    CHARLIE.  309 

To  feed  the  deathless  soul  below  and  make  it  pant  for 

Heaven. 
But   whatsoe'er  the    reason    be,   though  veiled   from 

O 

human  sight, 

Faith,  that  celestial  beam  from  Heaven,  shows  'tis 
entirely  right; 

And  sweet  the  thought,  when  we  get  home  to  man 
sions  in  the  sky, 

We  shall  sit  down  among  the  blest  and  learn  the 
reason  why, 

And  every  sorrow  that  we  shared,  and  anguish  that 
we  felt, 

Will  into  tokens  of  His  love  and  boundless  kindness 
melt. 

O  !  yes,  though  mysteries  throng  my  wray  and  truths 

conceal  their  mien, 
And  pain   and   sorrow  make   poor   earth   a   sad  and 

dreary  scene, 
So  much  intenser,  purer  joy  will  thrill  my  ransomed 

breast, 
When  I  shall  see  both  that  it  was  and  how  it  was 

the  best. 

O  !  let  me  then,  whate'er  betide,  without  a  doubt  or 

fear, 
Believe    our   Heavenly  Father   guides    our   tottering 

footsteps  here, 


310  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  that  the  humblest,  trusting  one,  is  surest  to  be 
right, 

Who  walks  among  earth's  dreariest  scenes  by  faith 
and  not  by  sight, — 

Then,  though  our  dear  ones  —  clearest  ones  —  are  from 
our  bosoms  riven, 

And  our  young  prattling  innocents  are  summoned 
home  to  Heaven, 

I'll  try  to  feel  until  the  time  when  I  shall  see  and 
know, 

That  it  was  love  and  only  love  that  dealt  the  stun 
ning  blow. 


STAY    IN    LONDON. 

'TwAS  when  we  had  our  hasty  home  in  that  gigantic 

town, 
All  gray  with  age  and  bright  with  youth,  the  pride 

of  England's  crown, 
Where  Virtue   stands  where'er  you  go  with  blessings 

in  her  arms, 
And  Vice,   beside  her,  wooes  her  dupes  with    more 

than  rival  charms,  — 
Where  wealth  goes  staggering  'neath  the  weight  of 

its  own  money-bags, 
And  want,  gaunt  starveling,  begs  its  crusts  in  scant 

and  fluttering  rags, — 


OUR    CHARLIE.  311 

And  all  extremes  of  good  and  bad  within  old  London 

dwell, 
That  make  her  seem  sometimes  a  Heaven  and  seem 

sometimes  a  Hell ; 
And    there    we    lived    and   passed   the   hours,   midst 

beauties  ever  new, 
We  wandered  all  her  galleries  and  gardens  throug' 

and  through. 
We  went  to   see  her  palaces  and   mounted  her   old 

towers, 
And  travelled  through  her   lovely  parks  and  walked 

among  her  flowrers  ; 
We   went    to    Kew    and    Sydenham,    that    brightest 

earthly  gem, 
Excepting    Chats  worth    that    adorns    old    England's 

diadem  ; 

We  went  to  her  old  abbey  where  uncounted  travel 
lers  tread 
The    marble    aisles   among   the   graves   of  England's 

honored  dead; 
We    went    to    that    enchanting    pile    beneath    whose 

graceful  wings 
Her    Lords    and    Commons    congregate    as    well    as 

Queens  and  Kings,  — 
And  all  these  things  on  memory's  leaf  are  written  out 

so  plain, 
The   picture   never   can    grow   dim    or   e'er    go   out 

again, 


812  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But    midst    these    charming    retrospects,    so    full    of 

genuine  joy, 
The  image  always  seems  to  stand  of  our  enchanting 

boy; 
We  hear   his   little   pattering  feet   along   the   marble 

floor, 
We  see  him  gayly  darting  round  through  every 

opening  door,  — 
We  hear  him  calling  Helen,  as  he  saw  some  work  of 

art, 
Which  chanced  to  catch  his  little  eye  and  thrill  his 

little  heart ; 

For  feasting  was  no  feast  to  him,  however  well  sup 
plied, 

If  Helen  did  not  share  it  too,  delighted  at  his  side ; 
No  matter  what,  no  matter  how,  no  matter  when  or 

where 
Our  retrospects,  the  little  form  of  our  dear  boy  is 

there. 

We  go  in  memory  back  again  to  Madam   Tussaud  s 

court, 
Where  London  tourists  always  go  for  pastime  or  for 

spovt, 
And  little  Charlie's  always  there,  as  merry  and  as 

gay 

As  when  he  asked  a  figure  there  to  tell  the  time  of 

O 

day,— 


OUR    CHARLIE.  313 

And  when  the  figure  did  not  speak,  he,  with  a  little 

pause, 
Came  up  and  told  us  what  a  boor  the  stupid  fellow 

was  ; 
"I  asked  the  man  what  time  it  was,  and   thouo-h  I 

7  O 

know  he  heard, 
He  did  not  even  notice  me  nor  say  a  single  .word." 

We    go    in    memory    back    again,    and    gayly   rove 

around 

In  Kensington,  that  beautiful  and  almost  fairy  ground, 
Around  the  lawn  and  through  the  grove   and  round    • 

the  silver  lake, 
All  swarming  with  aquatic  birds  of  every  form  and 

make  ; 
But  Charlie  always  seems  to  rove  amidst  the  magic 

scene, 
With  merry  face  and  laughing  eye  and  manly  form 

and  mien, 
And  calling  Helen,  Helen,  in  his  sweetest,  manliest 

tone, 
Whene'er  he  found  a  pretty  thing  he  would  not  have 

alone. 
There   he   and  Helen  and    the    nurse  —  I  see    them 

plain  as  day  — 
Went  out  and  spent  the  pleasant  hours  in  merry  sport 

and  play ; 


314  OUR    CHARLIE. 

I  see  them  with  the  drinking  cup  to  dip  from  yonder 

spring, 
And  basket  with  a   liberal    lunch   of  some  delicious 

thing. 
Anon,  I  see  him   standing  there  with   something  in 

his  hand, 
Among   the    noisy  feathery  tribes  as    thick    as    they 

could  stand, — 

When  suddenly  a  hungry  duck  to  little  Charlie  run, 
And  seized  from  out  his  little  hand,  his  but  half-eaten 

bun, 
And  off  he  waddled  toward  the  lake  with  Charlie  in 

his  track, 
And   gliding    in    the    water,    gave    a    self-complacent 

"  quack  ;  " 
Then  Charlie  cried  and  then  he  laughed  to  see   the 

creature  run, 
And   sail   away  so   far  from   land   to   eat  his  stolen 

bun. 

It  is  a  vision  of  the  fact  just  as  the  fact  occurred, 

When  Charlie's  bun  within  his  hand  was  stolen  by 
a  bird, — 

And  ever  after  while  he  lived  and  spoke  of  Kensing 
ton, 

He  used  to  tell  about  the  duck  that  came  and  stole 
his  bun. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  315 

t 

One  day,  while  seated  by  a  boy,  —  an  English  boy, — 
to  look 

And  see  the  pictures  in  a  little  English  picture-book, 

From  page  to  page  they  looked  to  see  the  reptiles, 
beasts,  and  birds, 

And  called  them  all  exactly  like,  the  designating 
words : 

The  Robin  and  Canary-Bird,  the  Serpent  and  the 
Fox, 

The  Fish,  the  Lamb,  the  Cow,  the  Goat,  the  Buf 
falo  and  Ox; 

And  Charlie  and  his  little  friend  pronounced  them  all 
the  same, 

Until  Aey  turned  another  leaf  and  to  the  Monkey 
came  ; 

"  Why  that's  '  a  hape '  upon  this  leaf,"  said  little 
Johnny  Bull, 

But  Charlie  almost  split  his  sides  with  laughter  brim 
ming  full, 

And  looking  toward  his  English  friend,  he,  in  a  merry 
tone, 

Cried  out,  "Pray  tell  me  what's  'a  hape,'  I  never 
heard  of  one." 

And  ever  after,  when  he  saw  a  monkey  or  an  ape, 

He,  with  a  merry  smile,  would  say,  "  See,  Helen, 
there's  '  a  hape.'  " 


316  OUR    CHARLIE. 


PARIS. 

ENCHANTING  Paris,  where's  the  man  that  ever  saw 

thy  charms, 
Whose  Memory  did  not  always  clasp  the  vision  in  its 

arms, 
And  he  who  visits  Europe's  shores  will  always  take 

good  care 

To  visit  Paris  oftenest  and  stay  the  longest  there. 
Our  home  on  rue  de  Rivoli  was  where  we  used  to  see 
Those   gayest  grounds   this   side   the   skies,   the   gay 

Tuileries ; 
And    when    the    children   wished    to    go    within    the 

grounds  to  play, 
'Twas  nothing  that  they  had  to  do  but  go  across  the 

way; 
And,  therefore,  hours  and   hours   they'd   play,   those 

happy  little  ones, 
Among  the  Gallic   girls   and  boys    and  white-capped 

Gallic  bonnes  ; 
And   there   they   used   to    study  French    among   the 

merry  throngs, 
Until  they  talked  as  well  as  they  and  sung  their  little 

songs ; 

And  now  when  all  these  scenes  come   up  on   Mem 
ory's  pages  traced, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  317 

Our   Charlie   is   the    central  charm   upon   the  canvas 

placed ; 
The    gay    policeman    knew   him   well    when   comino- 

o 

near  his  beat, 
And  used  to  call  him  "Petit  Sharl,"  whene'er  they 

chanced  to  meet ; 
And    on    that    same    policeman's    face    you'd    see    a 

smile  of  joy, 
Whene'er  he  saw  him  cross  the  street,  —  that  little' 

Yankee  boy ; 
And  they  would  talk,  and  "Petit  Sharl"  declare  it 

was  his  plan 
To  be  a  bold  policeman  too,  when   he   should  be   a 

man. 

But  midst  all  these  —  these   splendid   scenes    of  ele 
gance  and  joy  — 

Our  little  Charlie  ne'er  forgot  he  was  a  Yankee  boy, 
And  at   their   fetes    and   gay   parades   in    streets   or 

Champs  de  Mars, 
You'd  see  him  marching  'neath  our  flag,  the  glorious 

stripes  and  stars ; 

And  'twas  amusing  very  oft  to  see  him  marching  there, 
Beneath  his  country's  banner  with  a  martial  step  and 

air; 
And    when    the    Imperial    Cortege    rushed    through 

rue  de  Rivoli, 
The  little  Yankee  boy  was  there,  among  the  rest,  to 

see  : 


318  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And    when  the    Empress    rode    away,  with    splendid 

coach  and  four, 
Along  that  street  as  smoothly  wrought  as  any  palace 

floor, 

With  Helen  at  his   side,  he'd  stand  with  an  uncov 
ered  brow, 
Where  he  was  sure  to  catch  her  eye  and  sure  to  get 

a  bow  ; 
For,  unlike  England's  Royal  Queen,  she  deigns  to  cast 

her  eye, 
And   bow  to    those   who    show  respect  when   she   is 

passing  by  ; 
And   when  the    Prince    Imperial    dashed    along   the 

crowded  way, 

With  cavalcade  caparisoned  in  splendidest  array, 
Our   Charlie   dearly   loved   to   see    the    little   fellow 

ride, 
With  all  those  splendid  mounted  men  escorting  at  his 

side ; 
For    envy   never    touched    his    heart    with    e'en    its 

faintest  tints  — 
'Twould  be  as  if  a  sovereign  should  be  envious  of  a 

prince. 

How  can,  think  you,  these  pleasant  scenes  in  faith 
ful  memory  start, 

And  Charlie  not  relive  again  within  a  parent's 
heart  ? 


OUR    CHARLIE.  319 

0  !  when  I'd  seen  the  gray  old  world  of  which  I'd 

read  and  dreamed, 

And  memory  had  daguerreotypes  of  how  its  wonders 
seemed, 

1  felt  that  I'd  a  double  world  instead  of  only  this, 
From    which    to    draw   the    viands   for    my   feast   of 

earthly  bliss ; 
But  since   our  Charlie    left   our  arms    and  we   were 

whelmed  in  grief, 
And    he    and   Europe,    side    by   side,    are    found    on 

memory's  leaf, 

The  retrospects  of  foreign  lands  and  foreign  travel  wear 
A  hallowed  charm,  a  chastened  hue,  because  our  boy 

is  there ; 
And  'tis  for  this  we  fondly  hope  that  travel  with  its 

lore 
May   now   appear   a   holier    thing    than    it   appeared 

before. 


THE    VOYAGE. 

'TwAS  eighteen  hundred  fifty-eight,  July  the  seventh, 
at  four, 

With  luggage  placed  on  board  the  boat,  we  left  Man 
hattan's  shore  ; 


320  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  little  steamer  took  us  on  from  Jersey's  crowded 

slip, 
With  many  a  friend  who  wished  to   see   us   safe  on 

board  the  ship, 

And  wafted  off  our  little  group  as  gayly  as  a  dream, 
To  where  the  Persia,  gallant  ship,  was  riding  in  the 

stream ; 
And  hands  were   grasped   and   kisses   given  by  fond 

Affection's  lips, 
And  warm   adieus   from  friend   to   friend   exchanged 

between  the  ships  ; 
And    when    the    little    steamer    turned    and    darted 

toward  the  shore, 
White   handkerchiefs  were  waved  from   both  till  we 

could  see  no  more. 

Good-by,  good-by,  dear  friends,  good-by;  dear  native 

land,  adieu, 
O !  shall  we  e'er  alive  and  well  come  back  again  to 

you? 

'Twos  thus  we  thought,  perhaps,  we  said,  as  we  pre 
pared  to  go, 

And  gather  in  our  little  flock  within  our  home 
below ; 

And  ere  we'd  oped  our  drawing-room  and  gathered  by 
ourselves, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  321 

And  placed  the  children  in  their  berths,  (the  children 

called  them  shelves,) 
Old  night  had  gathered  round  the  ship  and  hemmed 

the  prospect  so, 
We  saw  but  moon  and  stars  above  and  ship  and  sea 

below  ; 
And  then  commending  all  to  God  upon  the  bended 

knee, 
We  spent  the  night  in  gentle  sleep,  the  first  we  spent 

at  sea. 

And  day  and  night  for  days  and  days,  without  a  mo 
ment's  rest, 
The  gallant  Persia  ploughed  the  way  upon  the  ocean's 

crest, 
Without  a  storm  or  boisterous  wind,  a  single  hour  or 

day, 
Until  within  the  Mersey  moored,  the  ship  at  anchor 

lay. 

Who  does  not  know  how  anxiously  when  people  are 

at  sea, 

They  make  the  most  of  incidents  to  break  monotony, 
And  how  invention  does  her  best   to   call   up   some 
thing  new, 

~  * 

To  see  or  hear  or  meditate  or  think  about  or  do; 
And  such  were  all,  or  almost  all,  occurring   day  by 
day, 

21 


322  OUR    CHARLIE. 

That  caused  a  ripple  o'er  the  face   of  dull   ennui  to 

play  : 
An  iceberg   of  enormous  size    one    evening    hove   in 

sight, 
And  some  few  whales  came  up  to  spout  far  distant  to 

the  right, 
And   one    poor   fellow,   on  the   way  to   his  affianced 

bride, 
Deceased  and  then  was   solemnly  committed   to    the 

tide,  — 
And,   saving  these  few  incidents,   the   actors   in    the 

play 
All  improvised  the   incidents  they  had  to   cheer  the 

way. 
But  what  with  incidents  we  made  and  those  we  found 

supplied, 
And  voyage  made  so  very  brief  by  prosperous  wind 

and  tide, 
It  was  a  very  pleasant  trip,  which,  till  life's  sun  shall 

set, 
We    shall    delight    to    think    about    and    never    can 

forget ; 
But  ah !    to  me   there's    something  more    than  what 

these  scenes  impart, 
That  memory  gathers  from  it  all  and  shrines  within 

my  heart. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  323 

A  little  boy  in  sailor's  dress  and  scarcely  three  years 

old," 
Whose  thick  red  flannel  coat  and  pants  kept  out  the 

piercing  cold, — 

For  e'en  July  npon  the  land  may  very  scorching  be, 
And  still  be  cold  as  Greenland  where  we're  far  away 

at  sea ; 
But  cold,  the  bitterest  sort,  that  comes  from  biting 

frosts  and  snows, 
Could  scarcely  get  a  nip  at  him  within  those  flannel 

clothes ; 
And  while   the   other  boys  and  girls,   and  men   and 

women  too, 
Were  shivering  with  the  bitter  cold  and  almost  frozen 

O 

through, 
He,  merry  as  the  merriest  lark  that  ever  chirped  a 

%» 
Was  never  cold,  but  warm  enough,  through  all  the 

livelong  day  ; 
And  so  well  known  and  loved  by  all  was  that  mild, 

merry  child, 
He    carried   pleasure    where    he    went    and   sunshine 

where  he  smiled ; 
And  ere  he'd  been  a  week  at  sea,  so  well  he  played 

his  part, 
He'd  gained  respect  of  all  on  board  and  every  sailor's 

heart ; 


324  OUR    CHARLIE. 

So  that  when   disembarking  from  this  gallantest    of 

ships, 
A    "  Good-by,    Charlie,"    gayly   leaped    from    every 

sailor's  lips. 

Now  always  as  these  pleasant  scenes  before  my  vision 
lie, 

All  heard  again  by  memory's  ear  and  seen  by  mem 
ory's  eye, 

I  see  within  the  tissued  scenes  before  my  eyes  un 
rolled, 

Whate'er  supplied  the  silver  threads,  'twas  Charlie 
formed  the  gold. 


THE    RETURN. 

«. 

Two  years  had  passed  and  we'd  each  day  been  seeing 

something  new, 
And  home,  sweet  home,  with  all  its  charms,  came  up 

to  memory's  view  ; 
That   gallant   ship,  the    Arago,   and   gallant   Captain 

Lynes,1 
Were  soon  to  come  and  bear  us  where  the  sun  of 

freedom  shines. 

1  Captain  Lynes  perished  by  falling  from  the  banks  at  Niagara  in  the 
summer  of  1862. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  32£ 

Ah !  gallant  Captain,  —  so  alike  the  kindly  friend  to 

all, 
Not  cringing  to  the  rich  and  great  and   crabbed   to 

the  small; 
Whoever  ever  sailed  with  thee  but  when  he  had  to 

part, 
He  bore  away,  where'er  he  went,  thine  image  in  his 

heart  ? 
Old  Ocean  might  not  spread  thy  couch   beneath  his 

yesty  waves, 
But    old    Niagara    gave    thee    one    of  his    sublimesjt 

graves. 

Farewell,   Old  Man,  thou'lt  live  and  live  on  yonder 

fadeless  shore, 
When  dread  Niagara,  with  his  waves,  shall  cease  to 

rage  and  roar, 
And  all  that  ever  sailed  with  thee  across -old  Ocean's 

main 
Will  love  to  meet  and  talk  with  thee  and  rove  with 

thee  again. 

The  Arago,    that   gallant   ship,  the    English   channel 

ploughs, 
She's  shot  from  Havre  on  her  way  and  stops  for  us 

at  Cowes, 


326  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  all  on  board  the  little  boat,  we,  from  Southamp 
ton  glide, 

And  soon  are  near  the  Arago  and  lying  at  her  side 

The  portal  opes,  the  steps  let  down,  and,  joyous  and 
elate, 

We  gayly  leave  the  little  ship  and  get  on  board  the 
great. 

For  home,  —  for  home,  —  how  sweet  the  thought,  for 

those  who've  been  to  roam, 
That  they're  at  last  on  board  the  ship  that's  soon  to 

bear  them  home  ; 
And  if  the  steamer  stems  the  tide  as   she    has   done 

before, 
They  soon  shall  be  safe  home  again  upon  their  native 

shore. 

But  one  day  out  and  boisterous  gales  began,  in  furious 

spite, 
To  roar  and  rave  and  lash  the  sea  unceasing  day  and 

night ; 
The    seething   ocean  boiled  and  heaved,  and,   like   a 

dancing  cork, 
The  staggering  steamer  pitched  and  rolled  until  we 

hailed  New  York ; 
And  scarce  one  day  and  scarce  one  hour  and  scarce 

one  minute  e'en, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  327 

The  battling  wind-god  ceased  to  add  new  terrors  to 
the  scene. 

Through  Switzerlands  on  Switzerlands,  midst  moun 
tains  capped  with  snow, 

And  through  impervious  passes  oft  the  steamer 
seemed  to  go ; 

And  how  that  steamer  passed  those  gulfs  and  moun 
tains  capped  with  snows, 

And  shot  among  those  jutting  rocks,  alas !  God  only 
knows  ; 

But  she  did  stem  the  mountain  waves,  and  yawning 
chasms  spanned, 

Until,  all  safe,  we'd  set  our  feet  upon  our  native 
land  ; 

And  not  one  friend  who'd  said  adieu,  when  we  went 
off  to  roam, 

But  still  was  there  alive  and  well  to  bid  us  welcome 
home. 

These  scenes  still  live  as  fresh  as  when  we  saw  and 

heard  and  felt, 

And  never  can  the  vision  fade   or  in   oblivion  melt; 
And  never  shall  we   cease  to  see  until  life's  curtain 

fall, 

The  little  one  who  hallowed  it  and   sanctified  it  all, 
And  spun  the  little  golden  threads  that  bound  it  tc 

the  heart, 


328  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Too    sweet   and   strong   to   burden    or   be    ever  rent 

apart ; 
For   all   throughout   those  weary  weeks    within    that 

rocking  ship, 
And   through   that   lagging,  weary,    long,  disgusting, 

filthy  trip,  — 
When    all    declared,    'pon   honor,    if   they    ever    got 

ashore, 
They'd  never  leave  their  homes  again    to   tempt  old 

Ocean  more, — 
Our  little  Charlie,  midst  the    gloom,  was   like  a  ray 

of  light, 
He  gayly  sported  through  the  day  and  sweetly  slept 

at  night ; 
And    every   staggering    sea-sick    soul,  whom    nothing 

else  could  cheer, 
Imbibed    a    sunbeam    of   delight    whenever    he    was 

near. 

Dear  little  bud  of  innocence,  too  sweet  and  pure  to 
bloom, 

And  waste  thy  fragrance  in  the  fields  this  side  the 
silent  tomb, 

Why  shouldst  thou  not  have  been  so  gay,  so  uncon 
cerned  and  free, 

When  guilt  had  never  dropped  a  stain  or  spoke  a 
word  to  tliee  ? 


OUR    CHARLIE.  329 

Yes,  blessed  boy,  we'll  ne'er  forget,  until  our  dying 

day, 
Whose  little  face  amidst  that  scene  could   chase  the 

gloorn  away. 


DOUBTS. 

WHEN  Love  and  Friendship  find  the  ties  of  Love 
and  Friendship  riven, 

We  try  to  think,  and  we  may  think,  our  dear  ones 
are  in  Heaven, 

But  doubts,  like  motes  in  Faith's  clear  eye,  obscure 
its  upward  stare, 

Until,  at  last,  it  cannot  see  the  loved  and  lost  are 
there ; 

And  then  we  cry,  O  !  can  it  be,  that  our  lost  friends 
to-day 

Are  not  among  God's  conscious  ones,  but  dead,  un 
conscious  clay? 

And  then  the  clouds  begin  to  flit  o'er  Faith's  un 
clouded  sky, 

And  every  star  is  wrapped  in  gloom  to  her  bewildered 
eye; 

And  then  the  picture  grows  so  dim  and  almost  fades 
from  view,  — 

The  future  meeting  with  our  friends  that   chastened 

O 

fancy  drew; 


330  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And    then    we    try  to    wipe    the    mote   from   Faith's 

bewildered  eye, 
That  she  may  see  with  clearer  gaze  the  vision  in  the 

sky; 
And  tlien  we   go  with   chastened  heart  to  Heaven's 

unerring  tome, 
For  light  that  shows  as  plain  as   day  that  there's  a 

life  to  come  ; 
And  although  He  who  cannot  lie  has  made  the  truth 

so  plain, 
That,  though  man  dies  and  turns  to  dust,  yet  he  shall 

live  again, 
A   fear  will    sometimes    mar   our  joy,    a    doubt    will 

shake   our  faith, 
And  human  nature   weak  and  frail  hope's  brightest 

visions  scathe ; 
And  then  we  fly  to  any  source  that  added  light  will 

give, 
To    make    more    sure    the    glorious    truth    that    our 

departed  live. 
We  catch  at  that  important  fact  that  wheresoe'er  we 

roam, 
We  find  the  faith,  however  gained,  that  there's  a  life 

to  come ; 
And  surely  God  would  ne'er  have  given,  His  whole 

creation  through, 
A   faith   or   instinct    in    the    mind    to    prove    at   last 

untrue,  — 


OUR    CHARLIE.  331 

That  points  us  to  a  glorious  world  surpassing  bright 

and  fair, 
To  prove  a  mirage  to  our  faith  on  our  arrival  there. 

And  then  we  to  our  altar  go  and  leave  our  offering 

there, 
And  try  to  mount  to  God's  abode  upon  the  wings  of 

prayer ; 
And   never    do   we    go   in    vain,  —  we    ask    and    we 

receive, 
The  light  comes  down  and  then.   O!  then,  'tis  easy 

to  believe. 

And  then  we  sit  and  meditate  and  bring  the  prod 
ucts  home, 
And  group    them    till  the    picture    is  a  very  life  to 

come ; 
Our  loved  and  lost,  alive  and  well,  and  happier  than 

before, 
Are  loving,  roving,  triumphing,  where  they  will  die 

no  more ; 
And  then  we  sigh,  if  spirits  e'er  from  Paradise  may 

roam, 
And  visit  this   poor   earth   again   they  used   to   call 

"  sweet  home," 
O  !  that  the  dear  ones  would  come  down  and  for  a 

moment  rest, 


332  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  plant  pure   thoughts  and  pleasant  hopes  within 

the  throbbing  breast ! 
And  then  we  feel  an  inward  peace,  a  sweet  and  holy 

calm, 
As  if  upon  our  wounded  heart  an  Angel   dropped  a 

balm; 
No    impure   feeling,  wish,   or   thought,    could  in   on. 

hearts  be  found, 
Because   a  heavenly  visitant   had   made    it   hallowed 

ground  ; 
And  O  !  the  odor  of  that  scene,  —  it  was  not  driven 

away, 
But  floated  sweetly  in  our  hearts  for  many  and  many 

a  day. 

Ah !  no  one  knows  but  he  who  tries  what  heavenly 
fruitage  springs 

From  sitting  down  to  meditate  on  high  and  holy 
things  ; 

And  every  moment  wisely  spent  will  some  new  treas 
ure  ope, 

To  strengthen  faith,  to  brighten  joy,  and  cheer  the 
heart  of  hope. 

And  every  day  and  every  hour  we  find  some  little 

gem, 
To    set   within   and  sweetly  deck  Faith's  beauteous 

diadem ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.        ,  333 

And  though  revealed  in  Heaven's  own  tome  for  mor 
tals  to  receive, 

And  all  are  left  without  excuse  who  dare  to  disbe 
lieve,  — 

It  aids  the  most  undoubting  faith  when  there  is  that 
will  show, 

'Tis  backed  and  aided  by  a  truth  we  understand  and 
know. 

'Tis   God's   command  to   all  the   world  to  keep   His 

Sabbath-day, 
And  every  one   who  loves  his   Lord  will  cheerfully 

obey ; 
But  when  he  finds  that  man  and  beast  have  natures 

suited  best, 
Where  one  in  seven,  no  more,  no  less,  is  made  a  day 

of  rest, 
The  good  will  feel  an  added  thrill  of  reverence  for 

O 

the  day, 

And  with  devouter,  gladder  hearts,  the  sweet  com 
mand  obey. 

And  so  from  all  the  gleams  of  light  that  meet  us  as 

O  C-1 

we  go, 
And  all  the  truths  already  learned  and  all  we  come 

to  know, 
And  all  the  aid  and  all  the  light  analogy  supplies, 


334  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  all  imagination  gets  from  earth  and  sea  and 
skies,  — 

And  most  of  all  and  best  of  all,  tlie  noon-day  sun 
shine  there, 

That  gathers  round  the  human  soul  that  seeks  the 
•  place  of  prayer,  — 

From  all  these  sources  we  can  draw,  and  never  need 
to  fail 

Of  giving  Faith's  pure  eye  a  power  to  look  beyond 
the  veil ; 

And  seeing  Paradise  so  plain,  no  doubts  or  fears  could 
scathe, 

And  we've  fruition  almost  here  instead  of  wavering 
faith. 

O !  when  our  dear  ones  flee  away  to  be  with  us  no 
more, 

And  all  the  rites  that  we  can  pay  to  sacred  dust 
are  o'er, 

And  we  return  subdued  and  sad  to  our  once  cheer 
ful  home,  — 

But  now  the  saddest,  gloomiest  spot  beneath  the 
starry  dome,  — 

There's  nothing  but  the  Christian's  hope  can  shed  a 
ray  of  light, 

There's  nothing  else  but  trust  in  God  can  make  us 
feel  'tis  right ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  335 

And  hope  and  trust  and  every  help  the  mourner  can 
employ 

Can  scarcely  give  the  wounded  heart  a  genuine  feast 
of  joy ; 

And  time  must  shed  its  healing  balm  in  gentle  dew- 
drops  down, 

Before  the  sorrow  change  to  joy  or  cross  become  a 
crown. 

'Tis  sweet  that  there's   so  many  a  source    to  which 

we've  power  to  go, 
For  that  which  takes  foil  many  a  pang  away  from 

want  and  woe ; 

And  if  to    every   furnished    source    we    heartily  re 
pair, 
And  pick  up  every  little  thing  to  weave  to  gladness 

there, 
We  all  should  gain,  whoe'er  we  be,  the  greatest  or 

the  least, 
The  crumbs  of  comfort  quite  enough  to  make  a  royal 

feast, 
And  home  itself  would  beam  with  bliss,  although  one 

tie  is  riven, 
That  God  should  take  its  little  one  to  be  with  Him 

in  Heaven. 


333  OUR    CHARLIE. 


THE    PRAYER. 

O  THOU  who  didst  the  fiat  speak  and  out  of  chaos 
sprung 

This  beauteous  earth,  so  nicely  poised  and  in  mid- 
ether  hung, 

And  at  whose  word  the  breath  of  life  through  inert 
matter  ran, 

And  waked  its  atoms  into  life  all  marshalled  into 
man,  — 

To  Thee  we  come,  before  Thee  bow,  and  towards 
Thee  lift  the  soul, 

For  Thou  who  mad'st  the  Universe  canst  all  its  parts 
control. 

With  two  petitions  we  have  come,  they're  all  we 
bring  to-day, — 

Grant  us,  O  Lord,  a  listening  ear,  and  hear  us  while 
we  pray : 

O  !  give  us  power  to  fathom  what  Thy  providences 
teach, 

And  grace  to  study  what  they  mean  and  practice 
what  they  preach, 

That  when  we  take  the  cup  of  joy  or  feel  the  chas 
tening  rod, 

We  may  be  drawn  with  purer  joy  and  wanner  love 
to  God,  — 


OUR    CHARLIE.  337 

Then  though  our  eyes  are  daily  wet,  such  ties  were 

rent  in  twain, 
The  smile  shall  glitter  'mongst  the  tears  to  think  of 

Charlie's  gain. 


WHAT    IS    A    SPIRIT? 

WHAT  is  a  spirit?  sighs  the  soul  that  finds  dear 
friends  are  riven, 

And  tries  to  look  beyond  the  vail  and  see  them  safe 
in  Heaven  ; 

But  O  I  from  wit's  profoundest  depth  and  fancy's  loft 
iest  height, 

No  answer  comes  to  tell  it  what  or  shed  a  ray  of 
light. 

There's  many  a  Plato  who  has  tried,  since  time  its 

course  began, 
To   give    a   definition  which  should  tell   us  what   is 

O 

man  ; 
But  never  has  a  sage   or  seer,  although  he   did  his 

best, 

Succeeded  yet  in  giving  one  that  stood  the  final  test. 
To    tell    exactly   what   is   man,  we  must   define    the 

whole,  — 
Not  only  what  the  body  is,  but  also  what  the  soul; 

22 


338  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  though  we  feel  we  know  so  well  the  bodies  that 

we  wear, 
I   think  we    understand   as  well   the    spirits  that  we 

bear. 
Life  is  a  mystery  to   ourselves  e'en  in    our  earthly 

home, 
There  is   no  greater   mystery  in   the    spirit's   life   to 

come  ; 

If  spirits  here  not  only  live,  but  vitalize  dead  clay, 
And    bear   it    round    where'er    they    list    until    their 

dying  day, 
Is  it  more   strange   that  they  can    live  without   that 

weary  load, 
When  wafted   upon  new-born   wings  to   their  divine 

abode  ? 
But  although  what  we   then    shall    ba    mav   now  be 

O  •/ 

dark  and  dim, 
No  matter  if,  when  we  awake,  we  wake   to  be   like 

Him. 
But  still  we  puzzle  o'er  the  thought  how  spirits,  when 

above, 
Appear  and  act  and  talk  and  think  and  see  and  live 

and  move ; 
My  humble   Muse    presumes  to  think    that   in    their 

higher  sphere 
They  are  and  act   exactly  as  they  were   and   acted 

here, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  339 

The  difference  being  but  this,  methinks :  a  spirit  here, 
though  pure, 

Must  fight  its  way  and  win  the  day  or  never  be 
secure,  — 

But  there,  where  nothing  gross  or  vile  can  ever 
more  annoy, 

Whate'er  they  do  or  think  or  feel  are   elements   of 

j°y; 

The    house   it   lives   in   here    below   claims   many   a 

thought  and  care, 
Sometimes    it    needs    a    new    costume,    sometimes   it 

needs  repair,  — 
But  there,  no  house  demands  its  care,  and  in  its  high 

employ 
There's  nothino-  that  can  block  its  wav  to  truth  and 

~  «/ 

love  and  joy. 

Were  not  existence   everywhere  mysterious   through 

and  through, 
'T would  seem  far  less  how  spirits  live  than  soul  and 

body  do ; 

The  spirit  is  the  vital  thing,  the  body  inert  clay, 
Which    that  must  vitalize   or  this   can   never  live  a 

day, 
And  half  the  wonder  seems  to  cease,  when,  from  the 

body  free, 
The  vital  spirit  lives  in  its  own  immortality. 


340  OUR    CHARLIE. 

O !  when  we  ope  the  pearly  gate,  on  golden  hinges 

hung, 

And  enter  into  Paradise  and  join  the  happy  throng, 
I  do  not  think  that  higher  life  within  that  home  of 

bliss 
Will  seem  to  us  so  new  or  strange  or  different  from 

this,  — 
The  spirit  there  will  feel  the  same  as  in  its  earthly 

lot, 
'Twill  feel  that  its  surroundings  change,  but  that  itself 

does  not ; 
And  when » it   moves    or   looks   or   learns  or  acts, — 

whichever  one,  — 

Volition  sends  the  fiat  out  and  lo !  the  work  is  done. 
And  if  that  spirit  while  on  earth  were  thrilled  with. 

Christian  love, 
It  finds  the  things  that  cheered  it  here  are  cheering 

it  above ; 
When  Paysons  and   when   Judsons  mount  to  yonder 

world  of  bliss, 
They  find  their  happiness  the  same  as  they  enjoyed 

in  this  ; 
And  Heaven's  employs  as  well  as  joys  are  just  the 

same  as  they 
Had  been  pursuing  in  this  world  for  many  and  many 

a  day. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  341 


HOW    DOES    A    SPIRIT    LOOK? 

How  shall  we  in  the  spirit  land,  when  made  im 
mortal,  look? 

It  is  not  writ  on  Nature's  page  nor  in  God's  errless 
book ; 

But  I've  no  doubt,  to  spirits'  eyes,  our  spirits  will 
appear, 

The  very  same  that  we  appeared  to  eyes  that  saw 
us  here ; 

And,  therefore,  those  who  knew  us  here  will  recog 
nize  us  there, 

For  just  the  lineaments  we  wore  when  upon  earth, 
we'll  wear, 

And  if  we've  doubts  of  some  we  knew  or  sometimes 
wholly  err, 

It  is  because  they  seemed  below  not  what  they  really 
were,  — 

But  in  that  clear  and  piercing  light  to  clear  and 
piercing  eyes, 

To  seem  and  be  are  synonymes  where  no  distinction 
lies ; 

But  as,  on  earth,  resemblances  full  oft  the  vision 
strike, 

That  show  the  wearer  one  we  knew  or  one  exceed 
ing  like, 


342  OUR    CHARLIE. 

We  watch  his  motions,  features,  airs,  and  tones  and 

accents  long 
Before    we're    fully    satisfied    that   we    are    right   or 

wrong,  — 
So   in    the    spirit  land,    methinks,    the    happy   beings 

know, 
Full  often    at   a  single    glance    the    ones   they  knew 

below ; 

But  oftener  far  a  single  -glance  suffices  not  to  prove, 
That  'tis  or  is  not  one  they  knew  whom  they  behold 

above,  — 
And  so  they  have    to   look   and  watch   again,  again, 

again, 
Before  the  truth  like  sunlight  breaks  and  makes  the 

matter  plain. 
Sometimes  they  see  earth's  poorest   ones   on   highest 

seats  above, 
And  earth's  elite  on  humbler  seats  at  Heaven's  pure 

feast  of  love  ; 
And  thousands  there  they  often  find  whom  they  had 

never  thought 
Of  seeing  there   among  the   blest   in   that  delightful 

spot; 
And  thousands  they  expected  there  are  sought,  but 

never  found, 
Among  the  pure  and  lofty  ones  within  that  hallowed 

ground. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  343 

The  deathless  spirit  here  below  with  all  its  sins  for 
given, 

Is  just  the  same  as  it  will  be  when  safe  arrived  in 
Heaven ; 

VVhate'er  it  likes,  whate'er  dislikes  of  earthly  moral 
fare, 

Twill  like  or  dislike,  just  as  here,  those  very  viands 
there,  — 

For  earthly  bliss  and  heavenly  bliss  must  one  in 
essence  be, 

They're  not  diverse  at  all  in  kind,  but  only  in 
degree. 

O !  yes,  methinks,  this  world  of  ours  and  that  which 

is  to  come, 
Are     only    different     rooms    within     our    Heavenly 

Father's  home  ; 
In  this  there  are  unnumbered  foes  assaulting   every 

day, 
And  he  that  would  securely  live  must  watch  as  well 

as  pray; 

In  that  there  never  lurks  a  foe  to  injure  or  annoy, 
But  work  is   play,  and  watching  rest,  and  prayer  is 

praise  and  joy ; 
In  this,  among  the  vile  and  gross,  the  spirit,  though 

a  saint's, 


344  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Like  some  rich  gem,  a  casket  needs,  to  keep  it  from 

attaints ; 
In    that,    the    casket's   thrown   away,    for   one    might 

look  in  vain 
For  anything  within  that  realm   to   mangle,  scar,  or 

stain. 

LIFE    NEVER    ENDS. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  life  begun  can  never,  never 

end, 
Surpassing  sweet,  if  we  but  make  the  One  who  gave, 

our  friend. 
'When  we  have  passed  our  lives  below  and  we   are 

done  with  time, 
And  we  are   borne   from  earth,  our  home,  within    a 

foreign  clime, 
It   is    not    on    a   stranger   land   that   we   are    rudely 

thrown, 
Where    people,   language,    customs,    laws,    are    novel 

and  unknown, — 
Where  life,  by  violence,  turned  awry,  must  in  new 

channels  flow, 
And  every  sweet  pursuit  must  cease  that  we  began 

below ; 
But  on  a  bright  and  balmy  land,  a  sweet  and  sunny 

shore, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  34o 

Which  we  had  read  and  thought  about  and  visited 
before,  — 

Whose  language  we  had  studied  here,  whose  customs 
we  had  learned, 

And  whose  pursuits  and  feasts  of  bliss  we  had  by 
faith  discerned, 

And  all  its  bright  inhabitants  we  long  had  learned 
to  know, 

For  some  we'd  heard  and  read  about  and  some  we 
knew  below ; 

Some  were  our  neighbors,  kindred,  friends,  our  chil 
dren,  husbands,  wives, 

And  now  we  meet  to  part  no  more,  but  live  immor 
tal  lives. 

O  !  when  we  mount,  at  God's  command,  above  yon 
starry  dome, 

And  enter  into  Paradise,  we  all  shall  feel  at  home; 

The  friends  that  knew  shall  know  us  there  and  wel 
come  us  above, 

And  those  we  knew  not,  knit  to  us  in  bonds  of 
warmest  love,  — 

And  long  as  long  eternity  through  endless  years 
extends, 

We  shall  be  swelling  every  hour  the  number  of  our 
friends. 


346  OUR    CHARLIE 


THE    CHRISTIAN'S    PATMOS. 

THE  hearty  Christian,  while  he  lives  on  earth's  dim 

homestead  even, 
Finds  many  a  Patmos  where  he  goes  and  gazes  into 

Heaven, 
And    if,    vrith    those    inspirings   fired,    the    Heavenly 

spirit  gives, 
'Twill  be  the  faithful  portraiture   that   in    the  bosom 

lives, 
And  when  he  enters  Paradise  and  walks   the   sweet 

parterre, 
He'll  find  the  essence   of  it   all   upon   his   canvas  — 

there. 

The   artist   on   the   landscape   looks  until   his   bosom 

fires, 

And  with  its  inspiration  full,  he  to  his  home  retires, 
And    in    his    cluttered    studio,  among    his    works    of 

taste, 
That    landscape    on    his    canvas    lives,    all    true    to 

Nature  traced. 
Not  every  ruin,  hill,  and  tower,  and  shrub,  and  flower, 

and  tree, 
That  we  upon  the  landscape  saw,  we  on  the  canvas 

see  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  347 

And  yet   so    like   the    landscape    and   its    portraiture 

appear 
That  he  who'd  ever  seen  the  first  would  recognize  it 

here. 
So,    when    the    contemplative    soul,  that    thrills   with 

heavenly  love, 
Looks    from    his    Patmos    here    below    to    Paradise 

above, 
He  takes  upon  his  heart  of  hearts  daguerreotypes  of 

Heaven, 
And  breathes   its   spirit    fresh   and  warm  within   the 

portrait  given,  — 
And    when    he    mounts    to    Paradise    and  walks   its 

flowery  shore, 
A  single  glance  attests  the  fact,  —  he's  seen  the  place 

before ; 
And    thus    the    pure    in    heart   may  have,   wherever 

they  may  go, 
E'en    while    within    this    vale    of    tears,    a    genuine 

Heaven  below  ; 
For  ha  who  seeks  the  truth  to  know,  and  seeks  it  at 

the  fount, 
Will,  like   the  Hebrew,  always  find   the   pattern    on 

the  mount, 
And  only  when   he   does  not  ask,  or  when  he  asks 

amiss, 
Does  he  e'er  fail  to  get  the  true  apocalypse  of  bliss ; 


348  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  all  we  need  to  reach  the  skies,  howe'er  abstruse, 
is  given, 

• 

If,  when  exhausting  all  our  powers,  we  ask  for  light 
from  Heaven. 


THE  PURE  IN  HEART  LIVE  ON  THE  VERY  CONFINES 
OF  HEAVEN. 

O !   'TIS  a   sweet,  transporting  thought,  that   to   the 

pure  in  heart, 
This  earth   of  ours  and  yonder   Heaven  are   but  an 

inch  apart, 
And  we  can  live  so  near  the  line  betwixt  that  world 

and  this, 
That  we   can   breathe    the  balmy  air  and  pluck  the 

fruits  of  bliss, 
And  if  our  thoughts  and  joys  and  theirs  harmoniously 

combine, 
Can  talk  with  those   we  loved  below  but  just  across 

the  line,  — 
Nay,  more  than   that,  can  cross  the   line,  our  loved 

and  lost  to  meet, 
And  rove  with  them  and  talk  with   them  along   the 

golden  street. 

O !  if  we  never  meet  again  our  sainted  little  boy, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  349 

Until,  in  our  immortal  robes,  we're  in  his  home   of 

j°y> 

'Twill  not   be    that,   by    stern    decree,  we're    rudely 

kept  apart, 
But  that  our  bosoms  do  not  throb  in  harmony  with 

his  heart. 


UPON    WHAT    MISSIONS    DO    SPIRITS   VISIT    EARTH?    AND 
HOW    DO    THEY    DISCHARGE    THEM? 

WHEN  spirits  leave  their  homes   of  joy  and  to  dim 

earth  return, 

It  must  be  on  a  mission  of  no  trivial  concern, 
And  we  in  fancy  try  to  find,  surveying  one  by  one, 
Not    only    what    the    mission    is,    but    also    how   'tis 

done. 
The   senses  —  those  mysterious  ducts,  through  which, 

with  ceaseless  flow, 
Comes   all  the    knowledge  that  we   get   of  anything 

below  — 
Must  grapple  matter  and  extract,  like  Hybla's  bees, 

whate'er 
We  choose  to  make,  while  here  below,  the  deathless 

spirit's  fare ; 
And   whether   gross    or   vulgar   food   upon   its    table 

lies, 


353  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Depends  upon   the   soul  for  which  the   senses   bring 

supplies ; 
And  when  the  spirit  mounts  above,  unfettered,  pure, 

and  free, 

And  has  put  on  its  spotless  robes  of  immortality, 
The  breath  of  odors  is  not  lost,  the  charms  of  beauty 

dimmed, 
Nor  music's  voice  is  silent  where  the  song  of  love  is 

hymned, 
Nor  touch  expires  where  contact  is  a  source  of  bliss 

and  love, 
Nor  pure  gustation  quits  the  feast  at  which  they  sit 

above  ; 
And  so  although  the  senses  die,  their  pure   ethereal 

parts 
Still  live,  the  deathless  ministers  of  gladness  to  their 

hearts ; 
And  when  the  spirits  roam  the    sky,   they're   never 

once  remiss, 
But   ceaselessly  are    bringing   them    fresh    thrills    of 

heavenly  bliss ;. 
And  when  they  come  to  visit  earth,  thesfi   ministers 

of  love 
Come  down  and  serve  the  spirits  here  as  sweetly  as 

above ; 
And  though  rude   matter  fill   the  world,  they  never 

fly  to  this, 


OUR    CHARLIE  361 

For  one  sweet  dew-drop  of  delight  to  swell  their 
cup  of  bliss. 

The    bee    sometimes    to    poisonous    plants    on    merry 

pinions  flies, 

And  bears  its  nectared  sweetness  home  upon  its  yel 
low  thighs, 
And  when  it  seeks  the  loveliest  flower,  'tis  not  its 

grace  attracts, 

But  'tis  the  unseen  nectar  that  it  buries  in  its  wax : 
So,    when    the    spirit    comes    below    among    material 

things, 
And    flits   around    from    spot    to    spot   upon    its   airy 

wings, 
'Tis  not  gross  matter,  howe'er  pure,  that   lures  it  to 

the  earth, 
But  that  pure  something  all  unseen  that  constitutes 

its  worth. 

We  have  to  do  far  coarser  work  than  blessed  spirits  do, 

We  see  the  bodies  of  our  friends,  but  not  their  spirits 
too, 

While  they  in  turn  behold  our  souls  as  open  as  the 
day, 

Undimmed  by  e'en  a  shadow  from  their  rude  uncon 
scious  clay; 

And  when  our  dear  ones  visit  us,  their  spirit-eyes 
behold 


352  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Not  these  frail  frames,  but  that  bright  gem  that  these 

frail  frames  enfold  ; 
And  that  AVC   do  not  see   them  on  their  visits  from 

the  skies, 

Is  that  we  do  not  cultivate  the  spirit's  keener  eyes; 
O !   if  we  did,  how   oft   our  hearts   in   ecstasy  would 

greet 
Our  living  ones,  our  happy  ones,  that  we  should  daily 

meet ! 
We  know  that  truth  has  richest  lore  that  mind  un- 

helped  can  learn, 
But  richer  yet,  that   grace  must   help  or  mind   can 

ne'er  discern. 

If  these  are  facts,  how  sweet  the  thought,  when  dear 

ones  are  no  more, 
Their    presence    may   be    palpable    and   pleasant    as 

before,  — 
Nay,  more,  if,  in  our  heart  of  hearts,  the  grace   of 

God  o'erflow, 
We  can  hold  sweeter  converse  now  than  when  with 

us  below. 

O !    thou    sweet    girl,    my   first-born    child,   so    early 

summoned  home, 
With  all   the    pure    in    Paradise    in  fadeless  bliss   to 

roam,  — 


OUR    CHARLIE.  353 

And  thou,  companion   of  my  youth,  who,  when  thy 

work  was  done, 
Didst  fly  with  joy  to  that  same  Heaven  to  join  the 

little  one,  — 
And   thou,    dear   little    blue-eyed   boy,  too  pure  and 

sweet  and  good 
To  spend  e'en  six  short  fleeting  years  this  side  the 

swelling  flood,  — 
Ye  are  not  dead,  ye  are  not  lost,  ye  are  not  absent 

even, 
If  I'm  but  living  high   enough   and   near  enough  to 

Heaven. 

O !  yes,  kind  Heaven  is   always   kind   e'en  when   it 

seems  severe, 

A  blessing  quivers  in  a  sigh  and  glistens  in  a  tear, 
And,    to   the    one   who'll   take   the   boon,  a   blessing 

trickles  down, 
Not  only  from  our  Father's  smile,  but  also  from  his 

frown. 
Our   blessings  are  immortal,  if  we   choose   to   make 

them  so, 
They're  ours,  not  only  Avhile  we  hold,  but  when  we 

let  them  go; 
A  friend  in  Heaven,  if  we   are  wrise,  will   far    excel 

in  worth, 
E'en  while  sojourning  here  below,  a  thousand  friends 

on  earth. 

23 


354  OUR    CHARLIE. 

O !    may   we    then,    whate'er   befall,   look   trustingly 

above, 
And  feel  whate'er  our  Father  does  He  always  does 

in  love, 
And  say  with    filial   confidence  that  He    on  yonder 

throne 
Has  snatched  our  dear  ones  from  our  breasts  to  nestle 

in  His  own  ! 


WORCESTER. 

DEAR  Worcester,  city  of  the  vale,  the  good  old  Bay 

State's  heart, 
If  there's  a  spot  most  dear  to  me,  of  all    on   earth, 

thou  art ; 
The  most  of  all  the  structure  built  by  study,  toil,  and 

care, 
That  constitutes  my  humble  life  is  genuine  Worcester 

ware ; 
The  dear  companion  of  my  youth  here  kindled  first 

my  hearth, 
Which,  though  so  humble,  was   to  us   the    brightest 

spot  on  earth ; 
And  when  her  vigil  ceased,  and  lo  !  the  vestal  took 

her  flight, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  355 

Her  sweet  successor  came  along  and  kept  the  fires 
as  bright. 

o 

'Twas  there  our  little  ones  came  down  alighting  from 

above, 
And    filled    "  sweet    home  "    to    running    o'er    with 

sweetest  earthly  love. 

Thence  flew  to  Heaven  our  little  one,  the  first  that 

God  had  given, 
So  sweet  !  she  scarce  could  be  more  sweet  when  safe 

at  home  in  Heaven  ; 
And  then  the  black-eyed  mother  rose  to  join  her  in 

the  skies, 
As  ripe  for  bliss  as  one  could  be,  this  side  of  Para 

dise  ; 
And  last  flew  up  on  cherub  wings  our  little  blue-eyed 


The   Benjamin   of  home,  sweet   home,  to   realms  of 

fadeless  joy  ; 
And  now  they're  sleeping  side  by  side,  within  yon 

green  retreat, 
Which    Worcester    skill   and    Worcester    taste    have 

made  so  pure  and  sweet  ; 
And  now  whene'er  I  think  about  my  dear  domestic 

flock, 
On  which  I'd  built  my  happiness  as  on  a  solid  rock, 


356  OUR    CHARLIE. 

But  three    are    left,  the  other    three,  from  my  fond 

bosom  riven, 
Are  sleeping  in  yon  verdant  vale   and  praising  God 

in  Heaven ; 
And  now  whene'er  on  Fancy's  wing  among  my  flock 

I  roam, 
The  three  bright  spots  to  which  I  fly,  are  Worcester, 

Heaven,  and  home  ; 
And  when  we  all  bid  earth  adieu,  and  dust  returns 

to  dust, 
And  We're  all  sleeping  side  by  side,  as  soon  or  late 

we  must ; 
And  when  we  gather,  if  we  may,  in  mansions  in  the 

skies, 
And  rove   among   the    pleasant   scenes   that  checker 

Paradise ; 
If  spirits   may  a  blessing   drop   on    some   sweet   spot 

below, 
Replete  with  dear  mementoes  of  events  that  thrilled 

them  so, 

I'm  sure  we  never  should  forget  a  blessing  to  impart, 
The    best  that  we    could  find  in  Heaven   to   Massa 
chusetts'  heart. 


OUR    CHARLIE.  357 


DEATH. 

0  DEATH!   we   sometimes   call  thee  wretch,  knave, 

demon,  monster,  fiend, 
And  every  loathsome  epithet  from  Hatred's  kingdom 

gleaned, 
Because  thou  tak'st  these  garments  oft'  our  wearied 

spirits  bear, 
That    they    may    wear    the   glorious    robes   immortal 

beings  wear; 
But  when,  from  Jordan's  farther  bank,  we  look  across 

the  tide, 
And  see   the  monster  that  we   left   upon  the    other 

side, 
He'll  seem  a  Seraph  snatching  us  from   sorrow  and 

disease, 
To  seek  the  realms  where  bliss  and  health  are  borne 

on  every  breeze. 
The  Surgeon  seems  a  heartless  wretch  who  flourishes 

his  knife, 
So  like  a  stoic  'mong  the  threads  that  form  the  web 

of  life ; 

But  when,  from  every  throb  of  pain,  the  skilful  sur 
geon  wakes, 
Full  many  a  throb   of  rosy  health   and  merry  vigor 

breaks ; 


358  OUR    CHARLIE. 

The  stoic  melts  to  tenderness  and  sunshine  lights  his 

brow, 
And  that  same  surgeon  has   become   a  lovely  being 

now. 

O  Death !  whate'er  thou  really  art,   thou   seem'st  a 

fiend  or  friend, 
As  vice  or  virtue   sees   thee   o'er   its   restless  pillow 

bend  : 
The  grace   of  God  within    the    heart   robs  death  of 

many  a  sting, 
And  thou  dost  seem  above  its  bed  an  angel  on   the 

wing ; 
But  guilt  implants  unnumbered  stings  and  barbs  the 

stings  beside, 
And  makes  thee  seem  a  wretch  indeed,  the  deepest, 

darkest  dyed; 
And  bad  and  good  in  character,  at  every  depth  and 

height, 
See  death  at  different  angles  and  in  different  rays  of 

light. 
And  so   the   veteran  archer  seems,   no   matter  how 

demeaned, 
To  be  of  every  grade   between   the   angel   and   the 

fiend; 
While   at  that   height,   that  lofty   height,   by  spotless 

Enoch  trod, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  359 

The  archer  never  throws  a  dart,  the  summons 's  served 
by  God. 

When  these  frail  frames  are  racked  and  torn  by 
anguish  and  disease, 

And  skill  has  no  more  power  to  help  and  earth  m 
more  to  please, 

It  does  not  prove  the  being  fiend,  who  clips  its 
•  earthly  ties, 

And  lets  the  deathless  spirit  free  to  float  to  Para 
dise,  — 

Nor  when,  in  buoyant  health  and  strength,  he  calls 
the  spirit  home, 

To  wing  its  way  to  Heaven  before  disease  and  an 
guish  come. 

Death's  charged  with  many  a  cruelty  he  never  ought 

to  bear, 
And  clothed  with  many  a  ghastly  look  he   does  not 

really  wear. 
The  anguish  gushing  from  disease   ne'er  issues  from 

his  sting, 
And   sickness   is  the  dreadful  curse  our   crimes  and 

follies  bring. 
He  ne'er  employs  Disease  to  work  with  its  exhausting 

pangs, 
But  takes  the  victim   oft  away  from  his  envenomed 

fangs, 


360  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  often  calls  immortals  home  with   all  an  angel's 

care, 
Before   disease   has  touched  their  frames   or  sent  its 

venom  there ; 
And    when    age,    tottering    on    its    way,   has   almost 

reached  the  tomb, 
How  kindly  Death  cones  bending  o'er  and  takes  the 

old  man  home  ! 

O !    when    the    sick    man    writhes    upon    his    bed   of 

agony, 
And  friendship,  round  him,  feels  his  pangs  almost  as 

much  as  he,  — 
When  Death  steps  in,  O !  what  a  change  within  that 

room  appears  !  — 
The  suffering's  gone,  —  the  groans  are   hushed,  and 

nought  is  left  but  tears, 
And   every   crystal,    leaping    out,    lets    in    the    heart 

relief, 
And  carries  out,  from  feeling's  fount,   a  globule   of 

its  grief. 

O  Death !  when  stripped  of  everything  that    is  not 

really  thine, 
Thyself   and    mission    both    appear    enchanting    and 

divine, 
And   none  but  they,   with  moral  eyes,  abnormal   or 

obtuse, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  361 

Would  call  thee  monster,  or  would  load  thy  mission 

with  abuse ; 
Thou  dost  not  seem  as  thou  wast  wont  in  days  and 

years  whilom, 
Ere  thou  didst  come  and  visit  me  three 'times  within 

my  home,  — 
For   though  I    felt   that   dearest   ties  were   at   those 

visits  riven, 
I  knew  the  dear  ones  thou  didst  take  were  taken  up 

to  Heaven ; 
And  whensoe'er  I  think  of  thee,  I  think  of  those  I 

loAre, 
Not  mouldering  in  the  silent  tomb,  but  crowned  and 

throned  above  ; 
For  though   the   tear-drop  wet   the    eye    and  sorrow 

thrill  the  heart, 
To  think   how  very  sweet  the  ties   that   thou   didst 

rend  apart ; 
The    triumph    of  my   sainted  ones,    thrilled  by   that 

touch  of  thine, 
Makes  thee  appear  angelic  and  thy  mission  all  divine. 

O  !  let  us  then  give  Death  his  due,  nor  charge  upon 

his  head 
The  ghastly  train  of  loathsome  ills  that  gird  the  sick 

man's  bed ; 
He  comes  to  break  the  thread  of  life  now  grown  a 

weary  bond, 


362  OUR    CHARLIE. 

To    throw    it    over    Jordan's    stream   to   knit   to   life 

beyond ; 
He  comes  to  cut  the  soul  adrift  from  all  its  earthly 

ills, 
That  it  may  float  away,  away  among  the    heavenly 

hills  ; 
He  comes  to  its  dim  prison  of  clay  and  sets  the  spirit 

free, 
To  breathe  the  air   and   rove    the   fields    of  immor- 

•    tality; 
And  if,  as  Nurses  take  their  wards  what  time   they 

deem  the  best, 
E'en  in  the  midst  of  sport  and  play,  to  seek  a  bed  of 

rest, 
He  comes  to  us  in  perfect  health  and  kindly  bids  us 

come, 
While   full   of  hope    and  full   of  joy,  to  our  eternal 

home  ; 
We,  like    those  wards,  may  think   it  hard,  but   like 

them,  at  the  test, 
Find  that  the  hour  the  deed  was  done  was  e'en  for 

us  the  best. 

O  Death !   I   do  not  pray  thee   haste,  nor  linger  on 

thy  way, 
Nor  dare,  alas !  prescribe  for  thee  the  fitting  hour  or 

day; 


OUR    CHARLIE,  363 

My  chief  concern  shall  only  be,  whene'er  thou  call'st 

me  home, 
To  be  prepared  to  say  with  joy,  I  come,  O   Death! 

I  come. 


THE    GRANDMOTHERS. 

DEAR   Charlie,   could    the    memory  fail,   within  your 

home  above, 

To  recollect  a  single  one  you  used  on  earth  to  love, 
I'm   sure  'tis  not  your  dear  Grandma  who   used  to 

love  you  so, 
She's  lingering  just  on  Jordan's  brink  and  dearly  longs 

to  go  ; 
She  loved  you  much,  because  she  thought  her  Charlie 

was  so  smart, 
And  had  a  sweet  and  pure  and  kind  and  warm  and 

loving  heart ; 
And  when  she  felt  that  you  must  die,  it  pierced  her 

bosom  through, 
And  O  !  she  wished  with  all  her  heart,  that  she  could 

die  for  you. 
She'll  soon  be  there,  dear  Charlie,  soon,  released  from 

every  care, 
And   then   she'll    seek   for   you  the   first  of  all   the 

others  there  ; 


864  OUR    CHARLIE. 

For  though  there  be  full  many  a  one  she  loved  as 
well  as  you, 

Who  was  as  near  and  dear  to  her  and  full  of  prom 
ise  too, 

I  do  not  doubt,  when  she  is  gone  and  Jordan's  stream 
is  passed, 

She'll  look  for  you  the  first  of  all  because  you  left 
her  last. 

Have    you  forgotten  when   you  went,   as   you  were 

wont  to  go, 
To  see  your  Grandma  and  to  say,  "Dear  Grandma, 

how  d'ye  do  ?  " 
And  when  you  saw  her  hands  and  face,  .you,  in  an 

undertone, 
Said  softly  to  the  nursery-maid,  "  How  wrinkled  she 

has  grown  !  " 
And  then  you  said  as  if  you  felt  a  little  touch    of 

shame, 
No  matter,  Esther,  for  you  know  that  Grandma's  not 

to  blame. 
Then    you    went   back    and   kissed    her   cheeks    and 

looking  in  her  eye, 
You  patted  both  her  wrinkled  hands,  and  gently  said 

good-by, 

And  then  as  if  a  load  were  off  too  heavy  to  sustain, 
Your  fresh  unburdened  spirit  rose  on   buoyant  wing 

again, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  365 

And  off  you  bounded  through  the  streets,  nor  ceas'd 

until  you'd  come, 
And  given    the   magic   of  your   heart   to   those   you 

loved  at  home. 

You'll  not  forget  that  dear  Grandma,  whose  welcome 

was  so  sweet, 
When   we  went   out   to  visit  her   within   her  green 

retreat, 
And    although    not    so    near    the    brink   of   Jordan's 

stream  as  she, 
The    dear   Grandma   who    lived   so   near,   you    daily 

went  to  see ; 
She  yet  may  cross  the  stream  before  the  other  leaves 

the  brink, 
And  reunite,  'twixt  you  and  her,  the  severed  golden 

link ; 
She  wept,  dear  boy,  when  first  she  heard  that  you 

and  she  must  part, 
And  still  your  little  image  bears  in  her  remembering 

heart ; 
She'll    meet   you    soon,    ah!    very   soon,    on    yonder 

fadeless  shore, 
To  be  reknit  by  ties  so   strong  they'll  never  sunder 

*        more ;    . 
And  when  we  all  have  passed  the  stream  that  you 

so  early  passed, 


366  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  meet  with  you  and  rove  with  you  and  talk  witli 

you  at  last, 
O !  then   how  kind    the   blow  will   seem   that   smote 

you  in  our  bowers, 
And  O  !  how  short  the  time  will  seem  between  your 

death  and  ours ! 
The  woe   that  wrung  our   bleeding   hearts  when  we 

were  rent  in  twain 
Will  make  the  gladness  more  intense  when  we  shall 

meet  again. 
There'll  be  no  wrinkles   on    the    hands    of  reverend 

age  as  now, 
There'll  be    no  furrows  on    the   face    that   time    has 

dared  to  plough ; 
There'll  be  no  film  to  veil  the  eye  nor  bar  to  block 

the  ear, 
Nor  any    weak    and   tottering    limbs    as    we    behold 

them  here ; 
But  all  that  reach  that  happy  place,  whatever  here 

they  be, 
Will  waken  with  His  likeness  that  is  sweetly  worn 

by  thee. 

But  why  do    I   attempt   to    teach  my  little   Charlie, 

who 
Knows  more  about  the    spirit   land  than   all   earth's 

sages  do  ? 


OUR    CHARLIE.  367 

But  God  has  told  us  in  that  world  where  joys  eter 
nal  spring, 

There'll  be  no  blot  or  wrinkle  there  or  any  kindred 
thing ; 

And  since  we  cannot  hear  thee  tell  how  things 
celestial  be, 

It  does  our  hearts  good  oftentimes  to  try  to  talk 
with  thee. 


OUR    PHYSICIAN. 

I  LOVE  not  that  physician,  though  an   expert  in  his 

art, 
Who    only  has   a   cultured   head   and   not  a   feeling 

heart ; 
There's  quite  enough  surrounds  the  sick  to  make  the 

bosom  sad, 

Without  a  doctor's  boorishness  and  sullenness  to  add. 
When   Friendship  sees   its    dearest   ones  on  beds  of 

anguish  lie, 
And  asks  the  surgeon  every  hour  if  they  will  live  or 

die, 

'Tis  pleasant  if  a  kindly  word  is  spoken  that  reveals, 
That,  if  he  thinks  we're  acting  weak,  he  has  a  heart 

that  feels, 
And    such    was    ours,    ana    such    is    ours,    intensely 

trained  and  taught, 


OUR    CHARLIE. 

Not  only  in  affliction's  school,  but  in   the   school  of 

thought. 
His  three  bright  boys,  the  first  a  youth,  and  standing 

just  before 
The  well-known  threshold  that  is  passed  on  entering 

manhood's  door, 
And  two  bright  lads  but  just  this   side   the  pleasant 

moment,  when 
They  too  should  pass  the  boundary  line  betwixt  them 

and  young  men, — 
All  these   at    one  fell  swoop  were    plunged   beneath 

destruction's  surge, 
By    that    disease    that,    in    our    land,    is    childhood's 

dreadest  scourge  ; 
And  now  they're   sleeping  side   by  side,  in  slumber, 

O  !  how  sweet ! 
Within  three  consecrated  beds  in  Greenwood's  green 

retreat ; 
And   now,  whene'er  to   childhood's   bed   he  goes  to 

bring  relief, 
He  lives  these  scenes  all  o'er  again  and  feels  anev/ 

his  grief; 
And  when  fond  love  bends  o'er  its  child  for  weary 

nights  and  days, 
And  asks  a  thousand  silly  things  a  thousand  different 

ways, 
He    bears    with    weakness,    nnd   if  safe,    he    drops   a 

word  to  cheer, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  369 

But  if  lie  must,  he  tells  the  worst,  but  tells  it  with 
a  tear. 

Ah  me  !  if  human  care  and  skill  had  had  the  power 

to  save, 

Our  Charlie  would  not  be  to-day  reposing  in  his  grave  ; 
That  little   spirit  sweet   arid  pure   with  earth's  fond 

ties  unriven 
Would  be  not  making  Heaven  his  home,  but  making 

home  a  heaven. 

Ah  !  Doctor,  we  have  ne'er  forgot  how,  in  the  sum 
mer  heat, 

Although  ill  health  required  that  you  should  seek 
some  cool  retreat, 

You  staid  and  staid  and  watched  his  health  in  every 
light  and  shade, 

To  see  if  aught  within  your  power  could  comfort, 
cure,  or  aid; 

And  sometimes  at  the  midnight  hour,  the  time  to 
solace  cares, 

We  heard  your  feathery  footfalls  tap  upon  the  cham 
ber  stairs, 

And  then  you  said  that  being  awake,  —  you  scarcely 
knew  the  cause, — 

You'd  step  around  the  corner  here  and  see  how 
Charlie  was. 

24 


370  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Alas !   we    understood    it    all,  and  felt   the   proof  it 

gave, 

That  we,  erelong,  must  go  and  stand  at  little  Char 
lie's  grave ; 
But  yet  your  kindness,  though  it  made  our  bleeding 

bosoms  smart, 
Will  live  forever  and  be  shrined  in  our  remembering 

heart ; 
And  when  your  care    and  skill  had  failed  and  you 

could  do  no  more, 
And  he  had  closed  his  mild  blue  eyes  and  sailed  to 

yonder  shore, 
The  last  sweet  token  that  you  gave  how  much  your 

heart  was  here, 
We  saw  come  quivering  from  your  eye,  —  it  was  a 

crystal  tear. 


THE    VOLUNTEER    WATCHER. 

THERE  was  an  angel  daily  came  with  soft  and  care 
ful  tread, 

And  hovered  round  the  cherub  boy  upon  his  restless 
bed, 

And  night  and  day,  as  sure  as  air  to  fill  a  vacuum 
stirs, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  371 

Whene'er  the  mother's  vigil  failed,  the  substitute  was 

hers; 
And  though  no  ties  of  kith  and  kin  attracted  to  our 

home, 
The  holier  ties  of  sympathy  compelled  her  heart  to 

come,  — 
Scarce  willing   that    another's   hand   should   aid   the 

little  boy, 
Because  she  thought  a  stranger  face  might  vex  him 

or  annoy ; 
And  sleep  and  rest  were  quite  forgot  or  their  demands 

denied, 

While  bending  o'er  his  restless  couch  at  little  Char 
lie's  side. 

i 

Ah  !  Lady,  there  are  hearts  that  keep  these  mem 
ories  fresh  and  new, 

And  warmly  throb  with  heartiest  prayers  alike  for 
yours  and  you,  — 

For  could  the  kindest  care  secure  what  often  it 
secures, 

Our  little  one  had  sure  been  saved  by  such  sweet 
care  as  yours  ; 

And  there's  a  pair  of  mild  blue  eyes  now  lighted  up 
above, 

That  daily  turn  their  gaze  on  yon  with  all  a,  cherub's 
love ; 


372  OUR    CHARLIE. 

And  there's  a  pure  and  spotless  heart  within  the 
realms  of  joy, 

Among  whose  vital  threads  are  wrought  your  kind 
ness  to  our  boy. 

Your  sainted  father  knows  it  all,  for,  with  celestial 
art, 

He  reads  your  kindness  written  in  our  little  Charlie's 
heart, 

And  feels  intenser  thrills  of  bliss  since  he  can  see  so 
plain 

His  care  to  train  your  heart  aright  was  not  applied 
in  vain. 


THE    FUNERAL. 

THE  sable  hearse  carne  rumbling  o'er  the  pavements 

to  the  door, 
And  carriages,  with  sober  steeds,  were  standing  there 

before  ; 
And  friends  had  gathered  in  the  rooms  with  serious 

mien  and  air, 
As  if  they  felt  in  all  its  force  that  death  was  really 

there. 
And   then   the   pastor   of   the    flock  —  within    whose 

warm  embrace, 
We'd  found  for  many  and  many  a  day  a  sweet,  warm 

resting-place  ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  373 

And  where,  with  faith  as  sweet  and  pure  as  burned 

in  Abraham, 
Among   the    flock    our    little   boy  had   been   a  fairy 

lamb  — 
Took  up  the  Book  and  opened  it,  and  from  its  pages 

read 
Sweet  thoughts  the  spirit  dropped  for   those  who're 

mourning  for  the  dead ; 
And  then  he  lifted  heart  and  voice  to  little  Charlie's 

God, 
To  drop  a  blessing  down  on  us  while  smarting  'neath 

the  rod ; 
And  then  we  took  his  body  up,  a  precious,  precious 

freight, 
And  carried  it  away  to  sleep  within  its  native  State. 

'Twas  where,  within  yon  hallowed  grove,  in  richest 
verdure  dressed, 

The  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are 
at  rest ; 

We  stood  with  sympathizing  friends  beside  our  Char 
lie's  bier, 

To  take  our  last,  fond,  farewell  look  and  shed  the 
parting  tear. 

The  youthful  pastor  once  our  own,  kind,  studious, 
and  devout, — 

Whom  Charlie  never  once  forgot  and  loved  to  talk 
about,  — 


374  OUR    CHARLIE. 

Was  there  beside  us  with  a  heart  almost   as   sad   as 

ours, 

That  death  had  come   and  nipped  a  bud  in  our  do 
mestic  bowers. 
And  then   he   calmly  oped   the  Book    that  heavenly 

love  had  given, 
That  tells   us    of  a  future    life  for   all    the    good   in 

Heaven  ; 
And  there  beneath  that  open  sky  and  on  that  verdant 

sod, 

He  lifted  his  petitions  up  commending  us  to  God. 
Our  Charlie  needed  not  his  prayers,  for  lo !  in  fields 

above, 
He'd  lighted  and  was  roving  now  where  all  is  bliss 

and  love. 
Then  towards  that  little  sleeping  boy  the  sympathetic 

drew, 
And  gazed  upon  his  angel  face  and  looked  their  last 

adieu, 
And    left    him    to    the    stricken    ones    who    felt    the 

keenest  smart, 
Because  the  ties  of  heart  and  home  were  rudely  torn 

apart. 
And  as  we  bent  above  our  boy  with  grief  we  could 

not  hide, 
And  felt  how  very  sweet  'twould  be  to  slumber  at 

his  side, 


OUR    CHARLIE.  375 

The    fleecy    clouds    above    our   heads,    too    thin   for 

copious  showers, 
Looked  down  as  if  they  pitied  us  and  mingled  tears 

with  ours  ; 
And  then  we  gazed  and  then  we  wept,  and  till  the 

scene  was  past, 
We  could  not  feel  that  farewell  look  would  really  be 

the  last ; 
And  then  the  dear  heart-stricken  one,  within  whose 

fond  embrace 
The    little   fellow,    all   through   life,   had    found    the 

sweetest  place, 

Put  three    pure  lilies,  white   as  snow  upon  a  moun 
tain's  crest, 

Within  his  little  tiny  hands  that  rested  on  his  breast ; 
And  then   we  left  him  sound  asleep  unruffled  by  a 

care, 
With  this  fond  hope  that  we  some  day  should  sleep 

beside  him  there. 


THE    CONCLUSION. 

DEAR  Charlie,   I  have   done  my  task,   nay,   I'll  not 

call  it  task, 
'Twas  a  sweet  duty  from  the  first,  my  heart  began 

to  ask  ; 


376  OUR    CHARLIE. 

I   could    not   bear   to    think    a  boy  that  such    sweet 

promise  gave, 
Should  die  so  young  and  then  lie  down  forgotten  in 

the  grave  ; 

I  could  not  bear  that  death  should  come  and   ruth 
lessly  destroy, 
Nor  leave  behind,  except  at  home,  memorials  of  my 

boy. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  done  my  task  in  other  ways 

than  song, 
Perhaps  I  have  not  sung  enough,  perhaps  I've  sung 

too  long; 
But  since  but   few  will   read  the  book,  and  few  of 

these  but  those 
Who've    passed,    alas !    through    kindred    scenes    and 

suffered  kindred  woes,  — 
With  howe'er  little  skill  and  power  I  may  have  done 

my  part, 
They'll  take,  instead,  the  breathings  of  a  chastened, 

sorrowing  heart. 
The   critic   may  the   volume   read    and   ridicule   my 

views, 
The    stoic   may   the    pages    scan    and    cauterize    my 

Muse ; 
But  ridicule   and   cautery  will   reach   no   heart  but 

mine, 
They  cannot  alter  or  disturb  a  single  pulse  of  thine ; 


OUR    CHARLIE.  377 

Nor  can  they,  with  their  powers  combined,  my  pur 
pose  e'er  destroy, 

Of  telling  where  my  book  may  go  about  my  darling 
boy. 

A  few  more  years,  a  few  more  days  or   minutes  it 

may  be, 
Will  waft  us  to  the  pearly  gate  to  dwell  in  Heaven 

with  thee ; 
And  though  I  cannot  even  hope  an  offering  poor  as 

this 
Will  add  a  single   thrill  of  joy  to  Charlie's  cup  of 

bliss, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  e'en  in  Heaven  'twill  be  a  pleas 
ant  thought, 
If  I   have   kept  thy  pretty   name  from  being  quite 

forgot,  — 
Or  caused  thy  sweetness  like  a  flower's,  when  crushed 

in  perfect  blow, 
To  linger  longer  than  it  would  within  these  bowers 

O  O 

below. 


THE    END. 


CAM  BRIDGE :   PKINTED    BY   II.   O.    HOUGHTON. 


University  of  California 

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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


JLOJN1JUKT>  FUR  CO. 

224  W.  F-^sctvvay 

Glendale,  Calif.  91204 

Phone:  CI  4-0828 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000402897    3 


